It is three p.m. on a Friday afternoon and I can barely function.
I’ve drank all the coffee. I’ve drank water. I’ve eaten. I slept last night.
And it is still all I can do to stay awake.
It’s PMS week.
If you’re like me, and any part of your seventh grade health class stuck with you when you weren’t doodling in your Five Star binder, you probably used to think that PMS week meant your period. No. No, it does not.
This is the meltdown prior to starting your period.
We need a myth busters episode on this, apparently. Because my husband stared at me with a face full of perplexity when I broke this fact down for him, right before he scurried off to find shelter from my tirade.
I was very fortunate when I was younger. I barely noticed when I would ovulate. I might have felt a twinge. I may have eaten more chocolate unbeknownst to myself. But mostly? I was fine.
It was when Aunt Flo showed up that my life came apart at the seams.
Two day long headache? Check
Skin with more craters and marks than the surface of the moon? Oh, yea.
Moody? In dire need of a cheeseburger or Dr. Pepper? Wanting to die during gym class? Scratch the eyes out of the fifteen year old girl next to me who always raised her hand in history class? Wanting to shave my head, paint my nails black and otherwise assume whatever rebellious appearance I could just to piss my mother off?
Oh, you bet.
Now that I am older, like, twice as old, and I haven’t seen the inside of a high school auditorium or punched a time card at a college-age-part-time-job, I have discovered another kind of fresh hell that awaits me each month.
It happened sometime around my third child.
I noticed that in the middle of the month, my emotions would spiral out of control. I would spend about five days barely making it off the sofa or through until dinner time. I also wanted to wrestle a puma with my bare hands but I was really worried about whether or not I should get bangs. Am I just sad or am I really crying at this Hootie and the Blowfish song on the radio?
I realized that, for some reason after bearing three healthy children, my uterus wanted to make herself known. Even more than she already was. She decided, much like the Paris Hilton she is, five days of attention a month just wasn’t going to cut it. This is the age of 24/7 social media. Non-stop attention whoring is the ticket. The sky is the limit.
No, she decided that she would evolve into a Kim Kardashian drama queen of epic proportions. She now needed to occupy nearly two weeks of my life a month.
The result is I cannot even anymore, people.
Seriously, uterus, what do I need to do to show you that I take you seriously?? I already know what you can do. I know how powerful you are. I get it. Why do you need to strong arm my month even more??
I await my arrival from Aunt Flo each month just so I can have some relief.
It’s like watching King Joffrey die on Game of Thrones, but now Cersei is on the throne and is this really any better or is it in fact much, much worse?
I don’t know what I did in my short life to make the universe decided to torment me. I just want to be loved. I just want a soft pretzel and a nap, but also I want Bob Ross to tell me that it’s going to be okay.
In the words of my wise sister in law, women experiencing this should be allowed to lay around in red tents while someone else tends to all that they would otherwise need in life.
I just need, like, two weeks off a month, people.
Is that really so much to ask?