When Hormones Attack

Picture it: a husband and wife, companionably eating breakfast and watching the morning news. Suddenly a sinister fog creeps over the woman, her eyes glazing over as a forked tongue pokes out from clenched jaws. The desire to rip off a table leg and gnaw on it skitters through her head while her husband munches obliviously on his bagel. He reaches for his juice glass and she snarls, "THAT'S MY GLASS!!" (It's not) Life as he knows it is about to end for a week...as they enter...THE PMS ZONE.
I'm really not that bad. I've never once chewed on a table leg, though I've considered it. I used to get backaches and headaches and sore boobs once a month--but now I mostly just get MAD! Everything annoys me: the TV anchor-woman's hairdo, all the junk e-mail in my inbox, the way Fred's lips flap when he snores. The cats hear me say words that I'd never use any other time. Sometimes I wonder if people on the street can tell from my facial expression that it's wise to give me a wide berth. Any mugger, solicitor, or bear who dares approach me is going to be one unhappy camper.
Sure, the experts give us advice on making it through these days with minimal disruption. "Avoid caffeine, chocolate, salt, and alcohol." Are they nuts?! Those are the four food groups of PMS!! Dumping a pounder bag of M & Ms into a bucket of popcorn before plopping on the couch to watch "The Biggest Loser" just might get me through the evening without committing assault and battery. Having a glass of wine might make my face turn crimson and cause sweat to pour out of my hair, but is this a freaking beauty contest?!!
"Get exercise." That might be a good idea, but I have officially declared it "No Bra Week"--not just Sunday--and thus, energetic movement is unwise. Living in PJ pants all day is also a sensible alternative to those binding zippered waistbands when you're feeling bloated.
"Take magnesium to decrease symptoms like sugar cravings and breast tenderness." And oh, yeah, it can cause sudden diarrhea, too--just what a woman on a rampage wants to have.
In addition to being mad, I also become ultra-sensitive. Sniffling in the Walgreens parking lot after the clerk said I had the wrong coupon. Fighting back tears when the bank teller asks for my ID, like she hasn't waited on me at least twice before! Fred asks, "How was your day?" and I wail, "Why are you always ragging at me???!"
Then, just as suddenly as the scourge came upon us, it quickly departs. All is now right with the world. The cats come out of hiding, Fred moves back in from the dog kennel, and I hum, June Cleaver-like, while ironing his shirts. It has once again been convincingly demonstrated that when Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy!