It's been a bit of a rough week this week. Best just to duck and cover, for I am afflicted with the PMS in a major MAJOR way.
And while I know that this is firmly in the category or TMI (sorry Dad, sorry Dennis), I do not care, because caring is the first thing to go when suffering from the aforementioned affliction. (Well, that and the ability to squeeze into the skinny jeans). And since all the rest of you (that I know of) are female, you understand where I'm coming from. To quote the famous Stevie Nicks, "I need a little bit of sympathy, where is a little bit of sympathy....stand back".
The bad thing about PMS is it's like someone else has taken over your body, and you're just standing off to the side watching yourself and going, who IS this crazy person? And even though the rational part of you knows that it's coming, and that it's a complete overreaction, there's not a thing you can do about it except wait it out and be all, "Hormones! Why hath you forsaken me!?" 'Cause honey, NOBODY can do a mood swing like I do.
I first knew something was up when Tony and I were sitting in a restaurant a few days ago and the TV mounted on the wall in the corner was turned to ESPN 748's Trick Bowling competition. (First of all, trick bowling? Was it not complicated enough to just hit all the pins? Now we have to do it blindfolded and around chairs and with 4 balls at a time?) Anyway, I wasn't really watching because that's one of my SUPER HUGEST PET PEEVES EVER IMAGINABLE when someone watches TV over your head while eating, but Tony had gotten up to get something and I was just glancing around the room, waiting for him to come back. And I'm watching these bowlers with their ridiculous antics, and one guy decides to make it a family affair. So he gets his two little boys up there with them (5 or 6 maybe? I can never tell kids ages), in their cute little matching bowling shirts, and their cute little matching bowling balls, and the three of them roll their balls down the lane at the same time. And they get a strike. And the little kids are so happy! And they're all high-fiving each other and jumping around, and I was fine though all that, I really was. But then, Dad gets down on his knees right there next to the ball return so that he's the exact same height as his boys, and they give each other chest bumps.
And I lost it. Right there in the middle of the restaurant. I am bawling.
Luckily, the place wasn't that crowded and I was able to pretend that I was just having an allergy attack to the peanut oil or something rather than crying over trick bowling because, hello, insane much? Of course, Tony comes back from the salad bar to find me sniffling into my napkin (sorry bus boy guy) and instantly knows something's up. He listens patiently through my choked sobs of bowling...chest bumps...little matching shirts! and looks confused. Then he remembers back to last month when he walked in to find a similar episode of me crying over a pickup truck commercial (those slow motion bounding through the mud scenes were so moving!) and he figures it out.
Luckily, Tony's one of those smart guys who knows better than to make some kind of snide comment (or any comment for that matter, because there's a greater than average chance that I'm going to take everything as snide). He just does a really masterful job of trying not to laugh and changes the subject. Actually, I think he might even enjoy this particular week a little bit because he knows that this is the week when all of my "no junk food" rules go flying out the window. (Double whammy this week because it's Halloween and you can't go three feet without coming across some bit of chocolate covered goodness). So he waits. And sure enough, before long I'm prowling around the kitchen, a slave to the chocolate craving.
"WHY DO WE NOT HAVE ANY CANDY IN THIS HOUSE?!?" I growl.
"You don't buy candy, remember? We're eating healthy", He replies.
"Screw healthy! I need some chocolate". Right now. Chocolate. Right now!
"How about an apple? That's what you told me to eat for snack the other day". He lets the tiniest smirk slip. He's deliberately poking the bear.
I erupt into a 10 foot high monster, with red lasers shooting out of my eyes and my hair aflame. "CHOCOLATE!" I roar in an evil demonic voice, "BRING ME THE SACRIFICIAL CANDY BAR OR I WILL DESTROY THE ENTIRE WORLD!" He grins, triumphant. "If you insist, dear", he tells me, "I'll go get us some chocolate". (Somewhere, in the small sliver of my rational brain, I hear the word "us" and know that my best laid healthy plans have just been shattered, but for the moment, I do not care. There will be plenty of time for self-loathing later).
So here we are, eating cookie dough straight out of the wrapper and sniffling over SportsCenter (well, I'm sniffling, Tony's just watching while he absentmindedly pats me on the knee). In another day or so, I'll be able to lock the PMS monster back into her box for another month. I'll go back to pushing apples as acceptable snack foods, fit into my skinny jeans (well, maybe once I work the cookie dough off), and watch commercials without spontaneously erupting into a crazy person.
Precious sanity for exactly 28 more days.