5/12/10 Lady Issues

Warning: Today we're whining about sharing details of a most personal and slightly unpleasant nature. Male readers and those uncomfortable with the idea of "Aunt Flo" may want to look away now.

Oh Interpeeps. It is not the best of days for me. I am in the midst of a full blown attack of what Tony refers to as my "lady issues". And not the chocolate-craving, mood-swinging, crying-over-Hallmark-commercials (darn you mother's day commercial where the mom keeps all of the cards her daughter has ever given her!), but the more messy and less fun laying-on-the-floor-in-the-fetal-position-while-being-stabbed-in-the-abdomen-with-a-knife-from-the-insides issues.

Yes, it is true. My uterus hates me.

You know those women on the Kotex commercials who are smiling and laughing and going out with friends and playing tennis because they're not going to let their periods interfere with their lives? I loathe them. With every fiber of my being, I loathe them. Because I will not ever be one of those women. Instead, I am one of those lucky women who are cursed with an even more cursed version of the curse. Curse to the nth power. Those women have maybe three light days with no cramping or bloating or back pain and have been known to say things like, "Sometimes I forget that I'm even having my period!" (Oh it makes me want to smack them. Just climb up from my fetal position in the floor with my heating pad and my prescription pain pills and my ultra-heavy nighttime flow 360 degree super-absorbency protection and backup airplane wing coverage and beat that smug reproductive superiority out of them).

Oh sweet mercy! It's time for more Extra-strength Midol. Hang on.

I tell you Interpeeps, it's enough to make you wish you were a man. Or post-menopausal. Or both. And while my lady doctor assures me that there is physically wrong with me other than the fact that I'm on the "heavy end of normal", mother nature continues to donkey kick me in the ovaries for the first 5 days of each 28 day rotation. (Or 26 days, or 34 days, or even 42 days, because in addition to repeatedly taking a 2x4 to the gut, mother nature also likes to surprise me...makes the ambush more fun when you can't anticipate it).

When I die, God and I are having a sit-down about this, because it is a major design flaw. Really, I'm not sure what He could possibly have been thinking. (Unless of course it is just me, and the rest of you really are all Kotex commercial women with the laughing and the clubbing and the tennis playing and not a care in the world. In which case I will feel thoroughly cheesed off, because that is incredibly not fair). My misery? It craves your company, so even if you are one of those perky carefree women (please know that I hate you), I would like you to lie and tell me that of course you understand, you are right here suffering along with me in that you're bloated like a three day old raccoon at the side of the highway and that yes, your cramps could drop an elephant also.

And then somebody get me some chocolate.