The other night at the movies, I saw a preview for a film coming out called The Wolfman. Actor Benicio Del Toro visits his family home after the violent death of his brother, and soon after, he himself is attacked by a wolf-like creature. When the moon is full, he transforms into a hairy, snarling beast.
I don't even need a full moon. It was like watching myself evolving in the mirror. Hair in undesirable places. Knee-jerk anger over much of what I see, hear, read, and experience. Gnashing my teeth and being generally disagreeable about Fred's suggestions and comments.
I wasn't always like this, was I?? (For sure I wasn't growing a mustache.) But it's this personality transplant that bothers me the most. I've always been relatively cheerful and easygoing, not instantly riled up about everything. I feel like the real me has been snatched away and replaced by Miss Trunchbull from Matilda.
Besides the surliness, I offer other fine qualities. I'm forgetful, indecisive, unorganized, and feel extra gloomy when the sun doesn't shine. Small things seem overwhelming, and big things I'd rather think about next year. Our wedding vows didn't say "In sickness and in health, through PMS and menopause." With that loophole, Fred might go over to the cabin and never come back!
I guess I'd better do some more research and figure out how we can survive this time of my life--which could last for several more years yet. SLAM!! (That was Fred running out the door.)
And if you see a furry creature baying at the moon on Halloween night, stop and say hi. It might be me.
Showing posts with label PMS. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PMS. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Surviving the Storm
We are currently under the astrological sign of the Crab, which is quite fitting since there's a big grumpy one living at our house. It's like the "perfect storm": a deprived dieter meets PMS week. Since Monday I have been in moods varying from verge of tears one minute to fuming the next. One of the cats peed over the side of the litterbox; they're out to get me! The only good thing in the mailbox all week has been a 20% off Kohl's coupon. Nobody loves me!! I watched a chubby kid eat two samples of free cake in the grocery store bakery, but I can't have any!! Life is so unfair!! It's Wednesday and the sky is blue. Waaahhh!
Fred, after all these years, still thinks that there has to be something specific that I'm upset about. I mean men don't blubber for no apparent reason, right? And if there's a specific problem, it follows that there is a solution for it. He questions me repeatedly, "Are you sure there's not something bothering you?" I can't convince him that it's a stew of hormones, emotions, and chocolate cravings that would best be dealt with by Fed Exing me to Abu Dhabi.
However, his concern doesn't prevent him from beating me at two more games of gin. Or asking me to come outside and help him with something at the moment of a huge revelation on "The Bachelorette." Or dragging me out at six this morning to help plant oak trees!! Then when we're done, he winks and suggests we go back to bed. Has this guy ever heard of Lorena Bobbitt??!
I try to put myself in his shoes and wonder how I would deal with it if he acted nutso once a month. I wouldn't probe for the source of the problem; I'd just take action. I'd rub his feet and let him hold the remote; I'd take him out for dinner every night for the whole week. I wouldn't care if he drank 3 margaritas with the appetizer, and I'd tell him, "One little piece of turtle cheesecake won't ruin your diet!" I'd give him the credit cards and tell him to go shopping. I'm sure that's what I'd do! I'd even give him my 20% off Kohl's coupon!
I may be onto something here. I could write a book for men on how to survive PMS and menopause. For the title, I'd borrow from the mug I recently bought as a retirement gift: "Why do men die before their wives? Because they want to."
Fred, after all these years, still thinks that there has to be something specific that I'm upset about. I mean men don't blubber for no apparent reason, right? And if there's a specific problem, it follows that there is a solution for it. He questions me repeatedly, "Are you sure there's not something bothering you?" I can't convince him that it's a stew of hormones, emotions, and chocolate cravings that would best be dealt with by Fed Exing me to Abu Dhabi.
However, his concern doesn't prevent him from beating me at two more games of gin. Or asking me to come outside and help him with something at the moment of a huge revelation on "The Bachelorette." Or dragging me out at six this morning to help plant oak trees!! Then when we're done, he winks and suggests we go back to bed. Has this guy ever heard of Lorena Bobbitt??!
I try to put myself in his shoes and wonder how I would deal with it if he acted nutso once a month. I wouldn't probe for the source of the problem; I'd just take action. I'd rub his feet and let him hold the remote; I'd take him out for dinner every night for the whole week. I wouldn't care if he drank 3 margaritas with the appetizer, and I'd tell him, "One little piece of turtle cheesecake won't ruin your diet!" I'd give him the credit cards and tell him to go shopping. I'm sure that's what I'd do! I'd even give him my 20% off Kohl's coupon!
I may be onto something here. I could write a book for men on how to survive PMS and menopause. For the title, I'd borrow from the mug I recently bought as a retirement gift: "Why do men die before their wives? Because they want to."
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
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!
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!
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