The Worst Week of the Month. Period.
My absolute favorite day of the whole month has arrived: today, I got my period. And like the tricky little bitch she is, Flo, of course, arrived on a Friday so as to ruin a perfectly good weekend, and if she has it her way, a perfectly good pair of panties due to drunken inattentiveness and unnecessarily long bathroom lines. I will not be sharing a bed with a male suitor this weekend, but I will be hit on shamelessly by someone very handsome. Why? Because that’s the way these things work. Gentleman callers are only on the prowl when you, and/or your vagina, are unavailable.
Still, this is the best day. And it’s not because I’m not pregnant. I mean, I’m not pregnant. But that’s not what makes the day so glorious. Pregnancy scares for me are few and far between. And by that I mean I’ve only had one and it was sophomore year of college when I was on an anti-biotic and approximately five hours late. I knew before today that I had nothing to worry about, mainly because the only person I’ve had sex with recently is myself and last I checked, my battery-operated device does not have the ability to inseminate, which is why I love it more than any boy I’ve ever been with. That, and the fact that it really seems to know what it’s doing, never pushes my head down for a blow job, and always calls me the next day. The only way I could have become preggo is if Jesus Christ himself had chosen to plant his seed, but the last time that happened the girl was a virgin…or a genius. I am neither.
I am just happy that this hell week they call PMS is over and I can feel like a normal part of society. Not to be gross, but literally, the second I get it, it’s like all the bad comes out and I feel normal again and it’ just like Hallelujiah! Praise Jesus? But really. First and foremost, I am tired of feeling like my uterus is trying to dig its way out of my body like a prisoner escaping from jail. I’m pretty sure no uterus in history has been successful in this feat, and I don’t know why uteri everywhere keep trying. My boobs are 1000 pounds each and I would like to detach them and have someone just hold onto them for me for awhile. Seriously, if someone can figure out how to do that, I am down to rent my boobs out to any guy who would just like to play with them until they stop hurting. I am tired of eating everything with extra cheese and nutella
with banana on crackers straight out of the jar. I gained only one pound this period, but I really want to lose three pounds…like three times so there’s really no time for that. And there’s no dancing around it, I’ve been a perfect bitch. I threw a 30 minute bitchfit every single day for like seven-ten days (did you know PMS technically begins a few days after ovulation. Meaning a ten-day…read ONE THIRD of your month…emotional rollercoaster is normal) and one that spiraled into a rage lasting twenty hours in anticipation of the big day. And you know that’s why. You know it’s coming. And every day, you saunter into the bathroom, hopeful there will be an end to your misery, to no avail. You begin to feel like some sort of creature incapable of functioning normally. I cried unnecessarily three separate times. One of which in the middle of the day at work, and I’m told the sounds of TLC’s Waterfall blasting from my speakers on Spice Girls Pandora didn’t drown out my dry heaves. My make-up, thankfully, remained largely intact, but that still didn’t stop me from having to come up with a faux explanation for my behavior as I “came in with a big sweater and forgot [my] ridiculous pink heels today” so it was clear something was wrong. In an attempt to spare my all-male coworkers (and to make it seem like I wasn’t just being miserable for no reason), I told them I chipped my pedicure and I was having a really tough time recovering. I think they bought it.
As for the actual period, I really don’t think it’s as bad as all that stuff. Slight inconvenience, but it’s not that big a deal, and if you’re a guy…you get blow jobs. So like…there really shouldn’t be as much complaining as there is. Either way, I’d like to say a big “Fuck You” to estrogen for thoroughly ruining my week, and go celebrate my not-pregnancy-with-the-Messiah-and-reentrance-into-society over some adult beverages.