|April 17, 2001
It looks like there's a light at the end of the tunnel, finally.
(Or -- as we in the *engineering industry* like to say -- there's an LRV-activated/protected signal indication at the end of the fourth bore.)
At least, hormally-speaking.
Now that the storm has almost completely blown over for another month -- now that I am able once again to watch a Cadbury Creme Egg commercial on TV without weeping ... sprinkle a little salt onto my baked potato without blowing up like an overloaded colostomy bag ... slice my lunch apple with a very long, very sharp knife without scaring anybody, including myself -- I am able to report to you, with complete honesty, that this has been the worst premenstrual experience of my entire life. Even while it was going on last week, I was already thinking Wow! Is this the worst premenstrual experience of my entire life or what?? (Worse even than the infamous *Throwing A Burning Pumpkin At My Spouse * premenstrual episode of October 1994.) But then again I say the same thing every month, usually, so I had to actually wait for it to be OVER this time to know -- for absolute certain -- that this was, indeed, the worst premenstrual experience of my entire life.
And it was. The worst premenstrual experience, I mean. Of my entire life.
Not simply because it was a bazillion times more painful and exhausting than usual this time ... although it was. Not because it lasted about five days longer than usual ... although it did. And not because it was incredibly inconvenient, having to run to the bathroom every ten minutes to see if Mother Nature had snapped out of her coma yet.
Although it was.
(Not even because it meant that I was going to be forced to write about PMS on the website again. I lose valuable readers in TicTac every single time I bring up the subject ... plus I'm sure I'm making some of the testosterone-equipped readers out there feel a little *oogly* whenever they have to read this stuff.)
No ... what made the experience especially sucky and surprising and unfair, this time around, is the fact that it wasn't supposed to be this way. I have been taking these groovy new calcium supplements for more than two months now. According to the bottle -- and the commercials -- this is the month I was supposed to finally start feeling the difference. (You know the commercials I mean? The ones where the kindly, earnest-looking middle-aged woman wearing a physician's jacket and stethoscope sits on the edge of the desk and says "It will change your life" ... no doubt just before the camera stops rolling and she lights up a Marlboro?) For two months now, I've been faithfully chewing two tablets in the morning, two at bedtime -- at almost eight bucks a bottle, I might add -- and this was the month I was supposed to be reaping the rewards. This month, I was supposed to sail right through the murky premenstrual waters with nary a zit nor a fit. ("A 45% reduction in symptoms," in fact: that's what it promises, right there on the label.)
Instead, I was picking fights with my fiance over frozen chicken on Tuesday ... screaming at hapless Fed Ex "customer service" representatives on Wednesday ... weeping into my heating pad on Thursday.
By Friday I had completely stopped answering my phone or opening my e-mail or venturing much further than the fax machine two feet from my office door. In fact, if the floodgates hadn't opened finally on Saturday afternoon (while I was standing in a dressing room at Burlington Coat Factory, squeezing into a Size 14 that squished my aching breasts together like a couple of ten-day-old helium balloons), I might still be sitting there barricaded in my office ... swallowing Aleve like jellybeans, picking at that pimple in my ear, hating the world.
As it is, the only people I am still "hating" today are Mother Nature ... and the makers of Tums Calcium For Life PMS Formula.
Everybody else is allowed to live for another month.