PMT ate my weekend. By this, I don’t mean it made me pig out. Rather, PMT consumed it. Devoured it. Left me without so much as a morsel of my Saturday and Sunday that wasn’t spent in its torturous grasp, being a psychotic cow.
During that fraught 48 hours, here are some of the activities I tried to loosen its grip:
1. Eating handfuls of Choc Bits straight from the packet.
2. Shopping for new jeans (file this also under MASOCHISM and STUPIDITY)
3. Blasting Midnight Oil on my iPod while running on a treadmill.
4. Shouting at my husband.
5. Shouting at my children.
6. Phoning my mother to complain about everything.
7. Shouting at the mirror.
8. Swallowing handfuls of Evening Primrose Oil capsules.
9. Shouting at the TV remote controls for being IMPOSSIBLE to use.
10. Possibly throwing them across the room.
11. Buying the ugliest pair of shoes I’ve ever owned.
With a special highly commended mention to Choc Bits and Midnight Oil, none of it helped a jot.
So if there’s anything that can combat PMT I’d like to know about it (yes, yes, I know it’s called PMS these days but I haven’t had it for years so I still call it PMT and don’t argue with me because I will hurt you, bitch).
And please don’t tell me to meditate or turn my frown upside down (see above threat to hurt you).
Having been blissfully free of it for more than a decade, I’d forgotten how insidiously evil PMT can be. Particularly compared to other recurring afflictions.
About 10 years ago, I pulled my hamstring during a bad yoga adjustment – also known as someone pulling-your-right-foot-up-to-the-ceiling-until-you-cry. The injury still flares up regularly but whenever my hamstring is sore, I am alerted to this fact by…my sore hamstring. The location of the pain is always clear (hamstring) as is the cause (Sophie the Yogini). Thus, the moment my leg begins to hurt, I always curse her silently, wince for a few days and move on.
PMT is a duplicitous little bugger because it never announces itself. Instead, each month I’m seized by the unshakable conviction that the world around me has changed overnight. That everyone has suddenly become a complete tool and I missed the memo commanding every living being (and inanimate object) to focus on making my life unpleasant. Eventually, it dawns on me. But each month, I am a goldfish, flailing about in fresh shock as it happens again and again.