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tales of something simple - hormones

i believe

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

all types of chaos

girl pussy: how the discard of oral contraceptives has made me into a big ball of mush and insanity

I went on oral contraceptives when I was 16.  No, that doesn’t mean I was a big whore (and if I was, would you love me anyway?).  I had some female fallopian tube issues and apparently this was the big solution to crawling into the fetal position and wishing I would die for 10 days out of the month.  And yes, controversial as it was and still is, I toyed with all different prescriptions, falling in love with the genius pharmaceutical company (their CEO MUST have a vagina) that created a pill that kept my monthly periods to a quarterly event, wishing me a whopping 4-time a year stint in the land of womanhood.

And now, 24 in the midst of happily married life and career-building I opted out on the whole oral contraceptive thing.  This doesn’t mean I am pulling the goalie–not that I would tell you anyway.  It does however mean, sadly, I am now one of you.  Yes.  One of the women.  One of those tampon buying, overnight diaper wearing (OK it’s a maxi-pad, but it might as well be a flotation device), Midol consuming people who enjoys cramps, bloating and the really fun tear of the panti-liner from the wrapper in a silent, but full bathroom at work (ever try to rip one of those things slow so that no one will hear?  FAIL.  Might as well pop a bag of Lay’s in the middle of Church Service).  But this isn’t the worst.  No, no, no.

The worst is what having a full, fun-filled monthly cycle has turned me into.  A hormonal roller coaster of joy who has no idea when it is socially or professionally appropriate to cry, bitch or yell at someone.  I consider myself a strong woman.  Very brave.  Pretty confident.  A pillar of strength.  However this whole period thing?  It’s made me one big, giant…girl pussy.

That’s right.  I don’t just have a pussy.  I AM a pussy.  Ever since starting the monthly flow I have absolutely no tolerance for criticism.  I cry like a baby at “Lockup: Extended Stay” (yes, a show about men in prison), and I practically feel my uterus kick me when I hear babies cry.  I can tear up on cue and for whatever reason Mavis Staples’ song “You are Not Alone” plays at all the wrong times on shuffle at my desk at work (who are you Mavis and who downloaded you into my iTunes?)  causing me to need a box of tissues.  Any sign of stress, or so much as a red light a 1/2 mile away on my way to an already late commute to work in the morning gets me needing my own solo of REM’s “Everybody Hurts.”  So when I force the tears back into my throat, I get all hot and bothered and infuriated instead.  That guy driving 15 mph BELOW the speed limit on my way to work this morning?  Yeah, him.  I really, really hoped he was either having a stroke or getting the most dynamite blow job because there was honestly no other fucking excuse on this planet for him to be clogging up the roadway for no reason (hence the stroke or blow job).  Oh and my poor husband.  He’s mostly got the girl pussy (no pun intended), but when he gets the wrath of my hormones, like he did a few weeks ago, he literally looks at me like his wife has vanished and the woman who has replaced her is not only mentally retarded but also scary.  Long story short we were supposed to take one car to go to one destination and then I would take the car to do my thing, pick him back up and then we would go to said third destination together.  He changed the plans.  At 8am.  One hour prior to leave time.  I didn’t like this whole changing plans.  I had no reason for not liking it–we have a second car.  But something about him changing what we were doing an hour before go time while I was half-asleep and still trying to comprehend why this change was necessary I got the rush of a lifetime beating him communicative-ly to a pulp finding a way to negate every logical reason he had as to why we should take two cars.  I am not going to lie, it was actually fun.  I was so annoyed and I was so good at it!  He laughs if I tell him this and he shakes his head.

But this isn’t just PMS people, this is a whole tidal wave of hormonal change and it’s been quite the ride.  Case and point, the poor 16 year old at Giant last week.  I had a coupon for a buy-1 get-1 blizzard at Dairy Queen, valid only at my local DQ.  I stopped by on my way home from work, BEFORE THE EXPIRATION DATE, to meet a sign that read “Thanks for a great summer.  See you in the spring.”  Note to dairy queen: do not tell a woman mid-menstruation she can get free ice cream and then re-nig on that offer.  INDIAN GIVER.

So I drive to the local supermarket determined at this point to buy so much god damn ice cream my ovaries freeze.  I go up the check out with a box of super tampons and two gallons of ice cream and said “Ten guesses as to what I’m doing tonight!”  He turned red.  He very delicately picks up my items, and holds the tampons at arms length, careful not to look at me because after all, according to teenage myth I might make his asshole bleed if he looks at me too long.  He tells me my total and I generously shove a $2.00 off 18-ct tampons or larger” coupon in his face.  I say “Wanna know how much those tampons cost now?  99 cents.  That’s a STEAL.”  He practically turned purple and I think he is now scarred for life and will be terrified of the female anatomy until he turns 21.

One can only hope.


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