PMS–a great evil
While making my oatmeal this morning, a tablespoon spilled out onto the counter.
“Dammit!” I screamed. My sweet, innocent dog looked at me with concern, and started to walk over to comfort me.
“NO!” I yelled at her, and watched her tail tuck between her legs.
I wanted to kill everyone and everything. Every person that breathed the same air as me. Every lamp that looked at me the wrong way. Each second for simply existing. I was one unstoppable ball of fury. Then I remembered what time of the month it was. My period would arrive in 5 days. I was PMSing, and no one was safe.
As an Italian and fake redhead, I have a bit of a temper already. Though I can show tremendous patience with extreme cases of stupidity and ignorance at work, often the people I love are met with zero tolerance and rudeness. Blame nature, blame nurture; whatever you want. I feel badly about it, I really do, and try to make up for it by rebounding quickly, apologizing frequently, and random acts of kindness. But during PMS time, there’s nothing I can do. No prisoners—only fatalities.
Today at work, a colleague of mine suggested I do something a certain way.
“I know what I’m doing—I’ve been doing this for months and did it at my last job for a year,” I quipped, a little louder than I had intended, but he deserved it. How dare he insult my intelligence and act so superior. Didn’t he know who I was?
I complained about this encounter to another colleague, who responded with, “Jeez, take a chill pill, Tarantolo.”
BITCH. The last thing you should ever do is tell a woman who’s PMSing to calm down. As a woman, shouldn’t she inherently know that? Am I the only decent human being left on the planet?
And I can’t stop eating chocolate. In any form. This morning, after my oatmeal, which had chocolate in it, I grabbed the remainder of the chocolate covered peanuts. And then every few minutes or so I wandered back into the kitchen to grab a handful of chocolate chips from the baking cabinet. I cursed myself for having already polished off the Nutella. It’s never enough.
The temperature around my desk has increased at least 10 degrees in response to the anger burning inside me. I worry that if anyone should speak to me, I will Hulk out and destroy everything around me.
My hormones are “THIS IS SPARTA!”-kicking my emotions at a rapid speed, and there is no comfort in my agony. But what is worse, I wonder? To be pissed off at absolutely nothing, or to be a crying goon in the face of normality? Alas, I know that that is not too far off. Soon I’ll be weeping next to that same bit of tablespoon sized spilled oatmeal. And the lamp? It will undoubtedly break my heart.
Will my newly bloated self cause rage or tears? Will I eat several pounds of chocolate because I’m sad, or is my sadness causing me to consume obscene amounts of cocoa?
Until this has passed, I apologize for PMS, which does not stand for Premenstrual Syndrome, as some of you science individuals assume, but rather, Pissy Maddie Suuuuuucks. It might be best to stay away from me during this fragile time until I return to my normal self.
God speed, everyone—I hope we can make it through this trying time and remain friends afterward.