I’ve survived my monthly “happening” for somewhere around 15 years now and however punctual she may be, Mother Nature has a way of sneaking up on me time and time again. No matter how carefully I note the previous visit on my calendar, I always find myself struggling through a week, wondering why the universe would choose to destroy me so slowly until I realize. It’s time.
The better part of last weekend was spent in bed, wallowing in the third book of “The Hunger Games” and crying along with Katniss as her ever-fickle feelings flitted from Gale to Peeta and back again. When I needed a break from post-apocalyptic drama I chose to watch hours of “Hoarders” or “Strange Sex” on Netflix, punctuating the marathons with random shows about food. I had cravings for things I don’t normally eat, but chalked it up to the fact that I hadn’t been feeling well and my appetite wanted to make up for lost time. I couldn’t, of course, eat anything I craved because my digestive system had run amok, so I settled for countdown shows about diners or food trucks to wile away the hours.
Several things alerted me to the fact that I might be overlooking nature’s disgusting gift. A commercial on the radio makes me want to rip it out of the dashboard of my car and strangle whoever thought it was a good idea. It’s the one with the creepy pseudo-child’s voice singing about contracting cancer from a parent’s secondhand smoke. Infuriating. I hope that mutant child does get throat cancer so his/her vocal chords cease to function. (I say that without remorse since I’m pretty sure it’s an auto-tuned adult behind the voice.) I yearned for a frozen coke, and normally don’t even drink regular coke.
My sister and I headed into the theater, settled in and reveled in the solitude of our chosen seats, only to have the pleasantness shattered by four teenagers who lumbered in, laughing and talking in what would be considered “outside voices” by any teacher I know. I stared at them in fear, willing them to go anywhere but near me. My resolve disintegrated when they set their sights on the row behind me. I crumbled. They banged into the row, shoving forward every seat their sagging skinny jeans came in contact with. Including mine. Many times. I did the requisite “glare-while-slowly-turning-to-look-at-them” only to be greeted with a very snotty, “Hi?” I said, “the correct response would be, ‘excuse me, I’m sorry'”, but it was ignored. They continued their kicking, laughing and inappropriate volume for longer than my blood pressure should have tolerated. I hadn’t even seen these kids’ faces, but I burned with a hatred for them that surprised me. I mean, I hate most teens…but not so much as to wish them physical harm. In the case of this loathsome foursome, I did. In fact, when one of them had the misfortune to stumble on the stairs on one of his many trips in and out of the theater, I laughed louder than I should have. And may have pointed a little. I hope he was mortified as teens tend to be at the smallest of provocations.
Amidst the sudden jolts to my seat and outbursts of “OMG” from behind me were the sporadic whispers from my sister. They were completely harmless comments about the movie I would have found humorous under normal circumstances, but I wasn’t normal. I was a pre-menstrual monster. Once I realized that with every breathy comment I wanted to strangle the next right out of her, I knew the fate that awaited me. Everything was getting under my skin and I had much worse on the crimson road ahead.
Today I have been treated to lower, mid and upper back pain as well as extreme emotional sensitivity (realized when a co-worker asked if my goal weight loss was around 30 pounds, without me having mentioned anything) and continued ridiculous cravings. I want Bang Bang Shrimp and I want it now! I am falling apart as I type this and the main event is still days away. Ladies, I know you can relate. Boys, now you know.