Mothers who have daughters often try as much as they can to prepare us for life. Our mothers teach us how to put on make up. They can teach us how to cook and clean. Some mothers even teach us how to manage and deal with boyfriends who turn into fiancees and husbands. However most of them seem to conveniently forget to tell us how to deal with a little thing called PMS.
Now many of us who probably had that health class or that gym class that taught us about female health usually gave us the quick and dirty version of PMS- the cramping, the nausea, the bloating. Why don't they ever prepare us for the unbelievable mood swings, the uncontrollable crying and nothing fitting right ever? You know it's bad when your love for shoes takes a nosedive, because it's like if my clothes don't fit, what in the hell makes me think I'll look good in a pair of shoes?! For that week, it's like, "Damn a diet. I need my Ben and Jerry's NOW because those are the only two men that love me right now." And as bad as I feel for my fellow sisters in womanhood, I feel worse for the guys because they never, ever know when a mood swing is coming, unless he grew up in the house with all women and his father was his safety zone. Even then, dad will go out for whatever reason and not come back until the storm has blown over the house, usually in about a week. That poor guy had to catch it from his mom and sisters. So he knows what to say and do, sort of. What's even more upsetting is that it gets worse as you get older. So by the time I'm thirty, I expect my hair to catch afire and the top half of my body to spin around. Yes, for that week, I would be the embodiment of Beetlejuice.
I don't think PMS should stand for pre-menstrual syndrome. I think it should stand for PER MONTH SILLINESS, because every month we all seem to become our worst enemy. No amount of pills can stop that, no matter how much Midol and Tylenol we inhale.
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