Or the post better known as “Blog titles to make men run away”.
I’m not picky.
Or perhaps you menfolk are curious and are thinking to yourselves, hmm, this may be the post that clears up a few questions I have about my mom/sister/second cousin twice removed/girlfriend/wife/sister-in-law/co-worker/weird neighbor lady.
Well then stick around, menfolk, and I shall school you on PMS.
So, we ladies are just going through our month, waking up, eating, sleeping, doing dishes and laundry, taking care of pets/kids/life and then WHAM.
Something hits us.
It’s a fog. It clouds our sight. It messes with our mind. It makes us say a bunch of foolishness and meanness. Sometimes we weep. Sometimes we yell. Sometimes we have to take naps, just so we don’t kill anyone. Most times we need chocolate to make it through the day.
What is this debilitating fog?
I really think that the person who penned that song “Nobody Likes Me, Every Body Hates Me, Guess I’ll Eat Some Worms” was a woman going through The Fog. Because that is exactly how I feel during those few days where The Fog surrounds me. I feel almost paranoid.
Like EVERYONE is out to get me.
EVERYONE avoids me.
EVERYONE is secretly thinking I’m horrible/ugly/not funny/fat/unlikable/weird.
Here’s the thing. We know this isn’t reality, but it feels that way. It’s like for 2-3 days we take off our glasses that we normally wear and put on another set of glasses that skew the way the world looks. And if you’re super mental like me, you are thinking those 2-3 days, is this the way life REALLY is or is it just my PMS? And you’re almost too scared to find the answer.
Lance is pretty good with my, erm, afflictions. The other night, after listening to me huff and puff about something menial like postage stamps and why they have to taste so bad and how that offends me he just looked at me for a few moments and said real quiet-like, “Erm, is your period coming?”
There were two different answers that were having a war in my mind. One was “EXCUSE ME? LET ME TAKE THIS PEN AND STAB YOU IN YOUR EYEBALL!” The second was “Thank you SO MUCH for understanding that I am not a psychopathic person in need of stabilizing medications”.
I opted for the second. In fact, it was actually kind of helpful. I had hoped I could continue in my tirade of all the things I felt were wrong in the world that I could complain about. After awhile, though, Lance clammed up and stared at the TV.
I feel bad for men. I mean, I feel bad for us more, because dude. Having a uterus and a plethora of raging hormones is no picnic. Not to mention puberty and the need for supportive clothing items and shopping in the embarrassing parts of Walmart and labor and delivery and all. But I feel bad for menfolk because they honestly don’t know what to do with us. Pretty much it’s a given that no matter what they say, they’re in the wrong. Unless they come home with their pockets filled with chocolate, a sappy DVD in their hands along with the promise that we can say whatever we want because they’re metaphorically wearing Kevlar, they’re pretty much going to be hating life.
Perhaps this will serve as a help for you menfolk, to understand that we don’t want this, we didn’t ask for it, and we don’t enjoy it anymore than you.
And for us women, tell me how you get through The Fog. Seriously, I need something other than 47 Reese’s Cups and The Notebook.
Also, I promise to write something next that doesn’t include embarrassing body terms or female maladies. Maybe.