PMS & Antlers
I hate to write about stuff that’s totally a downer or getting into girly-TMI territory (sorry, dudes), but once every three months or so, I get, like, the worst PMS ever. I’ll first notice it during that hectic part of the evening after I get home from the gym and Ben is making dinner and Soren is experiencing toddler witching hour and there are toys all over the place and the animals are all OMG you guys you guys you guys feed us now the end is near and I’m trying to at least take off my shoes and ignore the fact that I won’t be able to shower for a while (“not showering for days” is the biggest lie anybody will ever tell you about life with a child, but sometimes I at least don’t get to shower at the exact minute at which I’d like) and I just, like, kind of snap. I might say something even bitchier than the things I say about Tim Tebow or Philip Rivers on Twitter after I’ve been drinking, or I might feel a sudden burst of rage that seems to come from nowhere but then I realize oh yeah, PMS.
My mental train leaves the sudden-burst-of-rage station and spends the next few days chugging through regions that include “not quite totally depressed,” “hopeless,” “angry,” “torrential verbal outbursts,” “outright crazy,” “fat and bloated,” “couches and sweatpants only,” and “zitty.” I recognize when I’m in it, which is good, but that does little to make it suck any less.
The good news is I know it’s not all that bad because I’m able to function and I tend to, inexplicably, have really good workouts. And I know it’s only temporary.
hiding
The bad news is nothing really helps and you just have to wait it out. Well, honestly, weed helps, but it’s not something we have around. (I’ve seriously considered looking into getting medical marijuana just for this intermittent PMS.) In theory, keeping busy helps, but it’s hard to keep busy when your brain knows it needs to be busy but your body is just this doughy lump on the couch. In a feeble attempt to cheer myself up this weekend, I consumed large quantities of cheese bread dipped in ranch dressing and tried to implement an antler-wearing regime with respect to at least one of our small animals. This mostly failed. I don’t know why it’s so hard for these guys to understand that I really enjoy animals with antlers. I mean, just humor me for a few minutes, dudes.
We’re getting there.
sweatpants and antlers: good for what ails you
