What’s the deal lately? Why am I crankier, weepier and generally more unpleasant to be around for PMS Week (which, by the way, is now closer to 10 days, not the one or two that Mrs. Tanaka explained in health class) than I was when you raged in my teenage loins like a oonce-ooncing rave? Why does it feel like 4,000 little fists are punching their way through my lower stomach to burst out of my skin?
You were much more sufferable the first 20 years you cycled through my life. Now it takes an entire bottle of Midol to make sitting at work bearable. Now I yell aloud for my coworkers to “shut the fuck up” instead of only mumbling it under my breath. And I continue to complain about this uncomfortable window of time every month like I’m a man with the sniffles.
I’m this close to having to be sequestered to a room with a jar of Nutella, a queue of Celebrity Rehab and a warm hand for my lower abdomen until the easy-going shell of myself reappears.
Because I’m in no mood for passive-aggressive nonsense right now, let’s cut to the chase. Are you trying to tell me that it’s time some smartass sperm makes the acquaintance of my uterus? Because if you are, this is a terrible approach. The convoluted emotions and intense pain I’m already feeling a quarter of my life are awful and I’m not interested in amplifying the drama times ten and sitting through it for nine months while incredibly fat. No thanks.
So can you back off for now? I got the memo and it’s great that I’m older and better in touch with my body, but my brain, emotions and bank account will let you know when your services are needed. Let’s work together on this, shall we? You’re killing the baby-making mood.