Here’s something you don’t know about me, loyal readers: I seldom have any of the symptoms that go along with PMS. Sure, I sometimes feel a tad bloated during that time of the month, but in general I’m a lucky lady – no cramps, headaches, mood swings, or any of the rest of painful and/or pesky symptoms that plague so many women every 28 days.
It’s all a trade off, though. While most months are just peachy, a few times a year I do have PMS. Major PMS. Sometimes this can mean intense cramping, but that’s maybe once a year. The other times? The other times I’m just angry. Like, “HULK ANGRY!” angry. I’ve been known to call it my hate face.
What sucks (or is cool, depending on how you look at it) is that I’m so seldom really in a bad mood that it can take me a while to figure out what exactly is going on. Like today I woke up, did a little bit of work, and by midday realized that pretty much everything I was reading on social media or hearing come out of my coworkers’ mouths was in some way frustrating or idiotic. Which does not compute when it comes to my coworkers, who are all great guys with fun ideas and witty personalities. By 3pm, after watching a video made by a dear friend and realizing that without a doubt I thought it was the most shitty, stupid thing I had ever watched in my life and where the hell did she get the idea that it was even useful to let other people in on her ridiculous thought process? it finally hit me that oh yes, I was wearing the hate face. Big time.
So I left work at 5pm, arriving home about 3 hours earlier than normal. The Man wisely assessed the situation (could it have been the electric charge crackling about my head? the smoke steaming from my ears? the demon horns?) and left me alone. I’m on the couch, drinking my second glass of wine, about to curl up and watch an episode of Lost Girl and attempt to zone the eff out before hate face gets the best of me.