It was a lovely Thursday in California. The sky was blue. The sun was shining. Palm trees were waving gently in the breeze. (Mother effing PALM TREES.)
And my husband wasn’t listening to me.
I mean, he really wanted to eat lunch at the condo… And I was fine with that… But there was Nothing for Me to Eat.
News flash, Husband! I am PICKY.
And I didn’t want to endure the endless “options” that his kind and loving parents were sure to throw at me.
“We’ve got cottage cheese. How about some cottage cheese?”
“There are some blueberries in there. And some super stinky sheep’s milk cheese.”
“And there’s some leftover pasta covered in gross, chunky tomato sauce from the other night.”
“Oh! And there’s that half of a chicken left!”
I want tuna salad. HUSBAND I WANT TUNA SALAD.
And he’s not getting it for me. Or offering any ways for me to get. The. Tuna. Salad.
“What do you want?” he asks, exasperated.
And I start yelling at him, because, yeah, that’s a solution.
And then he starts yelling back because I am Being Unreasonable.
And I start crying hysterically. Because we don’t have PLAN for the DAY on our VACATION and there’s no TUNA salad for me to eat. And what am I going to eat? I am going to STARVE to death without lunch.
So. Yeah. Next stop? Crazy town.
As I’m crying hysterically, a little sane part of my brain is tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “Um, aren’t you being a little bit melodramatic?”
But Internet, I can’t stop. My emotions are on a speeding train that’s barreling out of control down the tracks.
My rational, perfectly normal brain is telling me one thing…
But all the while, my hormones are prodding me with a sharp, fire-tipped stick.
I am totally, 100% out of control. I feel like the whole day is slipping out of my fingers. Like I have zero say in what’s going to happen for the day. And for some reason, that’s unthinkably horrific.
Finally, I hear myself wailing, “You are usually so understanding! Why are you being so mean to me?”
Yes, I said that to my perfectly reasonable, sweet husband. As he went into the bedroom, presumably to get away from me.
When I went into the bedroom a few minutes later, he wrapped me in a hug and apologized. Even though? He didn’t do anything wrong.
I knew why I was acting this way, Internet.
But did I say, “Hey Husband, sorry I’m being a freak show over here… You see, my period is just around the corner and my hormones are spazzing out.”
No, I did not.
Instead, I hugged him and cried some more because awww my sweetie is soooo understanding… And I ignored my irrational behavior. And its likely cause.
He ignored it too. And did not even mention the possibility that my outburst and mental breakdown might be related to That Time of the Month.
What I want to know is, why?
It’s not like I blame everything on hormones. That’s unfair. I do have responsibility for my actions, for how I respond to situations and events.
But sometimes, I really do feel out of control of my emotions. And when that happens? It’s like I don’t want to admit that this Fruit Cup of a Whack Job is not really me, it’s HORMONES, fucking around with me.
And god forbid my husband should suggest that I have PMS. Because even if it’s true, I will freak out on him. Because, for some reason, it’s not acceptable for him to blame my emotional craztacticness on Aunt Flow.
What is the deal, y’all?
*That quote is from an EXCELLENT episode of Everybody Loves Raymond called “Bad Moon Rising.” Go and watch it now.