Overflowing laundry basketI get in to bed.

My heart is beating rapidly but all I’ve done is walk up the stairs.

My head is full of things I have to get done.

I actually have a pain on one side of my brain and I’m contemplating waking my husband up and telling him that I’m having a stroke.

But I decide if it’s my time, then it’s my time. And my thoughts move on to more important things:

Let’s see, I have to return those two library books that are overdue. I think I owe 30 cents.

I must make an appointment for my annual exam.

Did I leave the garage door open?

I need to wash the towels.

I can’t forget to buy more steel cut oats when I go to the grocery store tomorrow.

Needless to say, I can’t sleep because this goes on for most the night until I decide to get up and start my day.

I come downstairs and make my coffee. I’m going to need it.

I feel like I’m in a panic.

Out of control.

My stomach hurts.

Things that don’t usually bother me? They’re making me crazy.

The house feels messy.

There’s my bag by the stairs filled with clothes from our short weekend trip to Miami for my niece’s Bat Mitzvah. But there are only a few things in it. Shouldn’t be a big deal.

There’s laundry overflowing the basket but there’s always laundry to be done so that shouldn’t bother me too much.

The sound of my husband blowing out his nose in the bathroom is making my hair stand up. But he does this every morning and I’m usually okay with it.

My kid is moving slowly this morning. Again. I’m going to explode if I have to tell her to hurry up or she’ll be late again.

Everything is amplified a million times and I don’t even know how I’m going to make it through the day.

Until I realize.

I’m due to get my period this week.

Everything makes sense now. (Except for the fact that at the age of 47, I should recognize this feeling more quickly.)

I mention this to my daughter as I’m driving her to school. (Late.) Thinking that, by my sharing this, it’ll help her understand the feeling when it happens to her.

But she just says, “I figured that’s what was going on. And I’m sorry I was late.”

And just like that, I feel better. Not normal but better.

So fuck you PMS.

I’m going for a run and you can go to hell.

Until, of course, I see you again next month.


How I felt this morning.