Happy Happy Joy Hoy, it's That Time Of The Month (TM).
At the age of sixteen, I discovered the true source of Penis Envy. (I was a late bloomer, due partly to excessive dieting beginning at the age of 14, but that's another story entirely). The arrival of my monthlies was nothing less than a complete disaster; I had been hoping that I was some sort of period-less medical aberration. Mom, of course, was beside herself with maternal pride (though I have a strong suspicion that all maternal pride of this sort stems from a sentiment akin to "HA-HA. Welcome, sister to the monthly week of hell known as fertility").
Considering the 6 hours a day, 6 days a week that I spent in a leotard and pink tights, I was less than thrilled. Pads were obviously out of the question, as they felt like you had a Cadillac between your legs, and looked like it too. How the hell was one supposed to prevent leakage when lifting your leg to the vicinity of your ear? It was one thing to be on the rag and in dance class when we were allowed to wear warm-ups and cover-ups; it was another thing when the director went on a purity streak and made us wear nothing but white leotards and tights. There were always horror stories passed on about some famous ballerina performing Swan Lake and leaking through the brilliant, expensive white tutu. I always did a lot of hamstring stretches to surreptitiously check for any signs of crotch leakage those days.
The other irritating part of becoming nubile was the fact that I hadn't even sprouted any tits. I was a bloody pancake. (My breasts caught up to the rest of my body after high school; upon seeing me a year after graduation, a male friend of mine said "When the hell did you sprout a pair of boobs? You didn't have those things in high school") Happily, I didn't have any of the other PMS symptoms my girl friends seemed to have; no cramps, no bloat, no tender breasts (didn't have any), no massive mood swings or cravings for chocolate, no extra zits (had plenty of those already, thanks.). And I would skip a few months here and there. All in all, not that big of a deal except for the bleeding from the crotch thing. I grudgingly resigned myself to a long wait for menopause.
This has changed as I get older. Now that my metabolism is no longer FUBARed, I have a fairly regular cycle. The week before P-Day, I can eat astonishing amounts of cheese, chocolate, Pringles, and French fries the week before. I think it's my body's way of stocking up on fat, sodium, and calcium. About that time, my tits swell to seeming Zeppelin-like proportions and stay that way until rag time is over. My mood swings surprise even me: one minute I'm ranting furiously and throwing nearby objects, the next I'm bawling my goddamned eyes out like I've just see Steel Magnolias for the first time. And I occasionally get a day's worth of cramps. This is the part I hate. The rest is no big deal, but the cramps - arg. I have a fairly high pain tolerance, but for some reason, cramps make me want to curl up in bed, suck my thumb, and whine for mommy. Or alternately rip my ovaries out with my bare hands. I realise I'm actually pretty lucky to have fairly light PMS in comparison to others, but this gradually-getting-worse-trend irritates me.
And the most frustrating PMS symptom is the urge to shag anything that moves senseless. When I'm dating someone, this doesn't present such a big problem. (Heh. Not to mention sex is fantastic for getting rid of cramps ;-P ) But in my current state of celibacy, it makes my back molars grate like the San Andreas fault. Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick, it's times like these that make me pray for saltpeter. Or anti-Viagra. Or more batteries.
Next up: The inner workings of my colon...
I'm joking.
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