The PMS

After spending a majority of my life without any signs or symptoms of The PMS, the past 2 years have been, well, interesting. Having polycystic ovarian syndrome meant that I never had anything remotely resembling a cycle, nor could I use the excuse that I had cramps or was feeling moody because “Aunt Flow was visiting,” because she never made the trip.

So, if you’re a guy and you want to stop reading now it’s fine. Or if you want to keep reading and pretend like you didn’t read this, I won’t tell.

Now, after having Abe and following the advice of a holistic nutritionist, I’m a real girl. With real hormones. And real mood swings. For the first year I was pretty overjoyed everytime I felt any of it, the way I’d imagine I would have felt in my teens if shit went down the way it should have. I would celebrate every month because Look! It happened again! I felt angry at women who didn’t appreciate that they had real bodies that worked all their lives. But I get it. Having a real body that works is a blessing, but it’s also an unpredictable roller coaster ride that, if you didn’t even buy a TICKET for the roller coaster, seems a complete waste of screams and nausea.

I don’t experience moodiness. It’s usually just one mood: angry. I get angry with the dogs, angry with the plants, angry with the mail schedule. This past week I got so angry with the stupid steamer basket that I threw it across the floor of the kitchen. I immediately picked up my phone and played my favorite game, one-click Amazon.com shopping, and furiously bought a new steamer basket. When my husband texted to see if I wanted a coffee, I texted back, “No and I just bought a new steamer basket because I threw this one across the fucking kitchen.”

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I don’t experience the chocolate cravings women used to tell me about. I don’t crave potato chips or wine or cheese. No, when I have The PMS, I crave spaghetti. Giant, heaping bowls of long, spindly noodles topped with a thick, red ragu, all covered in crushed red pepper. If there are fist-sized meatballs involved, even better. If I’ve got The PMS and you tell me we’re going to Olive Garden, I will probably make out with you. A single suggestion of Carrabba’s, Maggiano’s, hell, I’ll take Cheesecake Factory, and we can talk whatever repayment you want. So long as I get to twirl my way to bite after bite of tangy, spicy happiness…

Last night as I lay on the couch with my dog and husband watching nothing because Newsroom doesn’t come back until June, I moaned and complained about still being hungry after the healthy version of shrimp fried rice I cooked up for supper let me down. Having wept for a solid 20 minutes earlier in the day over Zach Sobiech’s passing from cancer and the short documentary on his life, My Last Days, I was finished with the emotional unrest part of The PMS for the day. I just wanted to eat. And I wanted spaghetti.

“What do you want?” my husband asked.

“I want spaghetti. A giant plate of spaghetti,” my mouth watered as I said it.

“I think we have some of your sauce. Do you want me to make you a plate?”

“NO I DON’T WANT YOU TO MAKE ME A PLATE. I’LL GET FAT.”

“You’re not going to get fat over one plate of spaghetti,” he snarked.

“Well, I don’t want any.”

“I’m going to make myself a snack. I’ll make it if you want it,” he said, getting up from the couch, already knowing what I really wanted.

“I don’t care. You choose. I probably shouldn’t.”

And, in a bolt of Best-Husband-Ever Lightening, appeared a heaping bowl of the most divine spaghetti I have ever eaten. I savored every single bite until I reached the bottom of the bowl and then, I licked it.

By the way, the new steamer basket came in the mail today.

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