PMS…Yep, totally going there. - Because my life is fascinating

I’m sitting here with a carton of Thrifty Cherry Chip ice cream. It doesn’t hold a candle to Ben and Jerry’s, but I suppose it’ll have to do. Tomorrow’s a new dawn, a new day, and a new diet…I think. So yes, this is Diet Eve.

I’m just going to go ahead and get this out there, if you’re a man, you might want to opt out of this post. I believe I have about three male readers: Matt, my Dad, and Barry–the coolest boss I’ve ever had. Barry, this is one of those days you would rather I stay home, FYI.

I’m a mess. I get like this several times a year–or maybe once a month–but I like to think that it’s a rare occurrence. As I’ve already shooed the men away I don’t have to worry about their scorn and non-understanding opinions, so I shall be frank with you.

What is it with women? Why must we get this way? This is the time of the month that life scrapes over me like a scouring pad. No pun intended.

Everything’s against me. The universe, my children, my husband (sorry, babe), the random lady at the thrift store who chewed me out for grabbing something from her “pile,” and above all, myself. This is the time of the month I can’t stand anything about me and get by on tears and prayer. And yes, chocolate.

This cherry chip ice cream sucks.

I really do wonder what it is that the Lord wants from me when I get like this. Surely there’s an easier way.

The fuse is shorter, the problems are SO much more complicated, and I feel grotesquely fat and ugly. Did I mention my face also breaks out?

Yah, folks, this is me being CANDID. You know who else is candid?

The author of Proverbs.
“It is better to live in a desert land than with a quarrelsome and fretful woman.” Proverbs 21:19.

It goes without saying that this book is written by a man. It also goes without saying that maybe that man should just go ahead and live in the desert.

But I am a mess, I’ll be the first to admit it. I need grace, and a lot of it. I need kind words, thoughtful actions, and unquestioned acceptance. I need this every day, of course, but these days more than others. Silly conversations, a cold shoulder, or even a delayed text message can send me into a tizzy. Everything’s distorted and disturbed and it takes everything to sort it through.

Now you might think, “Heavens, girl. You’ve got a case of the hormones.” And yah, I’m sure I do. NO, I’m not PREGNANT, let me just dispel that myth right now. It’s just plain old womanhood that ails me. Add to that motherhood and a really busy husband. Oh, and rain. And duck poop. And this crappy ice cream that I can’t seem to stop eating. Seriously, why does Thrifty endorse this?

*****

Well, this is weird. I stopped writing the above piece about eight hours ago. I didn’t really know where it was going beyond whining and lamenting the feminine condition.

It’s now 5:49 AM and I have slept maybe one hour. I’ve been up all night with a puking Coco and now my husband is sick. Chaucer will probably be awake in about one hour. I can’t get the smell of vomit out of my nose.

So here I am, out on the couch with my electric blanket. Does the day start or end here? What do I make of all this? The PMS I was describing earlier dictates that I be a bitch for the rest of the day. I have every excuse, right?

This is where the rubber meets the road for me. I think I’m gonna just defy all this feminine hoopla and look it square in the face for what it really is. (And might I just add that I’m really glad I dismissed the men from this post–I still don’t want them in on the secret).

PMS…Pleasing. My. Selfishness.

There you have it. Yep, the hormones are raging and the forces of nature are powerful.

But at the end–or in this case the beginning of the day I’m still responsible for my self. And this self wants to be pleased by everyone and everything. I’d like everything to just work out to my advantage all of the time–especially during this time of the month.

Except it doesn’t. And it shouldn’t.

The scouring pad. The refiner’s fire. We’ll get through this, right, ladies?

Sucky Week

In between.

My Diagnosis Of Rheumatoid Arthritis: Four Words That Changed Me