Generally, I’m a nice person, but I’m far from being sweet like Snow White when the seven dwarfs of PMS move in. More often than not, I resemble the wicked queen with my rapid mood swings.
“Mirror Mirror on the wall, who is the meanest of them all?”
Even these dwarfs know better than to hang around when I’m having a lousy day. If I had a poison apple in my hand right now, I’d throw it at them.
Who are the little buggers I’m talking about? These seven, miserable dwarfs:
GRUMPY: Overnight I’ve been transformed into a grumpy old person, which makes me hard to please on any given day. The sun is too bright, the kids are too loud, and my fiber pills are not working. Unless you’re going to surprise me with a juicy burger and a chocolate milkshake, then leave me alone.
SWEATY: Yes, I get sweaty when I’m PMSing. Ceiling fans on warp speed and an A/C unit set at 65 degrees is STILL not enough to stop the perspiration. My pores become a sprinkler system spewing sweat that runs down my face and pools at the base of my neck like the Great Lakes. My damp clothing is a second skin that I can’t remove fast enough. Where the hell is the shut-off valve?
BLOATY: I have a stomach that feels like it has been inflated with helium. Put a string in my nose and watch me float across the sky like the Goodyear Blimp.
SLEEPY: I’m always sleepy because I can’t sleep when I need to be sleeping. Insomnia has stolen the joy of hibernating under my blanket for hours and has turned me into a creature of the night. When I finally do fall asleep, I fall so deep that I can’t wake up. My house could go up in flames and I wouldn’t know it. If that ever happens, the firemen will just have to carry me out on my bed because I’m not leaving my Tempur-Pedic for anyone.
BLOODY: I have no interest in sex when Aunt Flo comes to visit, and my knee-jerk reaction to sexual advances is a resounding “HELL NO.” But if I’m not careful, my poor husband will be searching my body for alternative orifices.
HUNGRY: I can’t stuff my face fast enough with Flamin’ Hot Cheetos followed by a side dish of rocky road ice-cream. My bathroom scale stays hidden in the closet until my period bing-fest is over and I’m back to eating rabbit food.
PSYCHO: Think Jack Nicholson in The Shining, or Norman Bates from The Bates Hotel. It’s all fun and games until the grocery store no longer stocks my favorite pinto grigio and flames begin shooting out of my nostrils. Mr. Grocery Store Manager, you have been warned.
I can only hope that one day soon the prince of PMS relief will arrive on my doorstep. With a single kiss, all my symptoms will disappear….and only then will I live happily ever after.
About the author: Marcia Kester Doyle is a native Floridian and a married mother of four children and has one grandchild. She is the author of the humorous blog,Menopausal Mother, where she muses on the good, the bad and the ugly side of menopausal mayhem. Give her a glass of wine and a jar of Nutella and she’ll be your best friend. Marcia is a contributing writer for Huffington Post, In The Powder Room, What The Flicka and HumorOutcasts. Her work has also appeared on Scary Mommy, BlogHer, Lost In Suburbia, The Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop, Midlife Boulevard, Mamapedia, BA50 and The Woven Tale Press among others. She is the author of the humorous book, “Who Stole My Spandex? Midlife Musings From A Middle-Aged MILF” and is an author contributor to four other books. Marcia is a BlogHer Voice Of The Year 2014 recipient and her blog Menopausal Mother won VoiceBoks Top Hilarious Parent Blogger 2014. She was also voted top 25 in the Circle Of Moms Contest 2013. You can also find Marcia’s blog on Facebook and Twitter.