All aboard the hormone train!
Well, the rollercoaster ride that is PMS, really. Somewhere between two candy bars, an anger attack and a sudden urge to hug everything and everyone, it suddenly hit me that there should probably be a warning label, nay a gigantic billboard, next to every woman who is experiencing the wonders of one's uterus about to throw a temper tantrum. Trying to explain it to a member of the male species is very similar to learning quantum physics in Chinese... damn near impossible.
Being the powerful feminist movement that we are, we handle it with (some resemblance of) grace in the sense that most of us don't follow through on any of the sudden urges we may experience... like drive over a prius or flinging a blunt object towards that significant other in our lives, but we do things just a smidge out of the ordinary. For instance, we try to justify the 70 bags of chips we inhaled while shopping for that perfect outfit that won't fit because, well you're already bloated and the chips didn't really help... also, singing along and/or crying to a Taylor Swift song. Feeling hornier than a teenager watching a pillow fight, but with the appeal of a grizzly bear eating buffalo wings. That sort of thing. During those few days our brain is controlled by hormones as balanced as the Greek economy.
Then come the lovely commercials showing happy women in white pants running on the beach, obviously not getting eaten by sharks, that are supposed to make us feel better. How bout we do a reality show, call it 50 shades of crazy, and place 50 women on the same cycle in one house and watch what happens. I guarantee you none of them will be wearing anything close to white, or running. Unless its to the donut shop. Or a shoe sale. Oh fuck it, where's my wine?
Well, the rollercoaster ride that is PMS, really. Somewhere between two candy bars, an anger attack and a sudden urge to hug everything and everyone, it suddenly hit me that there should probably be a warning label, nay a gigantic billboard, next to every woman who is experiencing the wonders of one's uterus about to throw a temper tantrum. Trying to explain it to a member of the male species is very similar to learning quantum physics in Chinese... damn near impossible.
Being the powerful feminist movement that we are, we handle it with (some resemblance of) grace in the sense that most of us don't follow through on any of the sudden urges we may experience... like drive over a prius or flinging a blunt object towards that significant other in our lives, but we do things just a smidge out of the ordinary. For instance, we try to justify the 70 bags of chips we inhaled while shopping for that perfect outfit that won't fit because, well you're already bloated and the chips didn't really help... also, singing along and/or crying to a Taylor Swift song. Feeling hornier than a teenager watching a pillow fight, but with the appeal of a grizzly bear eating buffalo wings. That sort of thing. During those few days our brain is controlled by hormones as balanced as the Greek economy.
Then come the lovely commercials showing happy women in white pants running on the beach, obviously not getting eaten by sharks, that are supposed to make us feel better. How bout we do a reality show, call it 50 shades of crazy, and place 50 women on the same cycle in one house and watch what happens. I guarantee you none of them will be wearing anything close to white, or running. Unless its to the donut shop. Or a shoe sale. Oh fuck it, where's my wine?
