Aunt Flow. Cousin Red. The Curse. The Crimson Wave. Having The Painters In. Riding The Red Tide.
No matter how you label it, it sucks.
Ever since I can remember, I totally lose control of myself as a person for at least 3, if not 5, days out of the month.
My face breaks out.
I put on at least 5 lbs in water weight.
Any and all diets I’m currently following go completely out the window.
And I become a complete and utter megabitch to everyone who crosses my path.
What surprises me is how much worse this whole ordeal has gotten since I quit my job and became a stay-at-home-mom. No one ever warned me this would happen. And let me tell you, I could’ve used the heads up.
It starts off with the bloating. This has always been an issue for me, but it seemed less noticeable when I was wearing control-top nylons 5 days a week. And who’s kidding who – my abdominal muscles are not what they used to be, so a little bit of water weight makes look like I’m 5-months pregnant.
Which makes me feel depressed.
And makes me eat.
Now, I’ve always been a PMS eater, but it was different when I worked full time. PMS snacking was a socially acceptable (and awesome) part of office life – when someone announced it was their Special Time, we all went out for sympathy ice cream or chocolate to show our support.
We called it team work.
But being a SAHM means I’m no longer surrounded by sympathy eaters during the work week. Instead, it means I’m alone with food all day with no one other than my 2-year-old to watch me.
This is not good news, my friends.
And yet, once the dinner dishes are done, I’m still ravenous and end up eating whatever calorie-laden food I can get my bloated hands on.
And without fail, I start whining to The Hubs the following morning that our scale is broken when it registers digits I haven’t seen in . . . well, at least a month.
And then I become moody. But I no longer have vendors and underlings to take my hormonal rage out on. And since my husband sneaks out of the house extra early and comes home extra late when My Friend is Visiting, and The Kid is still too cute and small and co-dependent to be bearing the brunt of my insanity, I have to keep it all bottled inside.
But that never works out very well for me. It’s just a matter of time before I blow, and that always seems to happen at the most inopportune time – like when I’m trying to do up the zipper on my purse, but it just won’t budge, and I suddenly rip it off my shoulder and throw it across the produce aisle at the grocery store.
And then, just like that, it’s all over for another 28-36 days.
Yes, you read that correctly: 28-36 days.
I like to keep things nice and unpredictable in this joint.
I find it keeps my husband on his toes.