PMT and I are not good friends.
I’ve blogged about the depths of my hormonal despair before in Warning: This one’s about PMT:
Like my wrinkles, my waistline and my memory, my PMT is getting worse with age. I thought it would recede with my child-bearing capabilities. But no, it’s cranking things up a notch.
It’s probably prepping me – deep breath – for menopause. (Nooooooo!). I spend two weeks every month in a hideous blur of emotion, aching boobs and pimples. I want to hide under the bedcovers. Forever. I want to cry. Make that sob, uncontrollably.
I am so, so down.
Then there’s the boob situation. I had to hold them during running races with the Sprogs the other day. When I take off my bra at night … yeow! That little drop feels like I’ve thrown my tits over a cliff and they’ve gone splat at the bottom. All explody, like when I was running late for a breastfeed. Back when I was fecund, not perimenopausal.
As for the pimples, there are no words. That’s a lie, there are six words: Pimples at 43? So. Not. Fair.
I thought things were getting a little better on the PMT front … until the other night, when I cried for an hour after DD told me that he was angry when I woke him up on that fateful Tuesday morning at 6.30am to ask where we should go on our second date.
DD was a little startled by the depths of my trauma, especially when his assurrance that he was “only angry for five seconds” didn’t stem the flow of tears. He’s since downgraded it to being “mildly annoyed” and only very, very briefly.
But that was the moment you and I became US I wailed. And now it’s RUINED because you were ANGRY!!!!! Waaaaaahhhhhhhhhh.* 
As a little refresher, I described that momentous text exchange in a blog post called The Joy of Text.

It started when I sent a 6.30am message to DD following our first RSVP “date,” pondering where we should go for our second rendezvous.

I’m an early riser, so 6.30am felt like lunchtime and perfectly acceptable.

DD, on the other hand, was quite startled to be woken at 6.30am by a text from a virtual stranger/mad redhead.

But he soon got with the program.

This is how he describes it:

Tuesday – Alana awake – RSVP newbie decides to text at 6.30am
6.31am: Optus notices spike on North Shore
9am: Optus has crisis meeting and borrows bandwidth from Telstra
Midday: Alana’s ex-husband gets automated warning from the “cloud” saying capacity has been exceeded and thinks “Thank God, she’ll be blogging about someone else now.”

That night, after texting maniacally all day, we had our first voice-to-voice phone chat.

A major storm hit Sydney as we spoke – I think it was probably caused by heat between phone towers from the “machine gun” rate of texting we’d done … made worse by texts overtaking each other, queries, counter queries, explanations …

Recently I’ve been feeling very mushy about that first text message. It was one of those serendipitous moments that transformed both our lives.
If I hadn’t sent that text, DD would have blithely gone away on business to America for two weeks and not contacted me until he got back. A lot can happen in two weeks. We might not even have gone on that second date.
Instead we fell madly into something wonderful as we texted backwards and forwards across the Pacific around 500 times a day.
Before that text message we were just two rebound people who had a so-so first meeting in a suburban pub.
I didn’t like my romanticised moment being marred by a negative emotion like “anger”. DD wanted to know Did you expect me to do star jumps after being woken up? 
Well, no, but …
When I finally calmed down, I realised I may have overreacted ever so slightly.
Bloody PMT.
Although I did warn him before our second date that I was the craziest sane person/sanest crazy person he was ever likely to meet.
* In rational retrospect my reaction was far more about my volcanic hormones and emotional baggage than his harmless throwaway comment.
Song of the day: Patsy Cline “Crazy”

2 thoughts on “I HATE YOU PMT

  1. I swear that at the worst of my PMTs it’s like I’ve had a frontal lobotomy. Nothing is filtered. Add to that the looming spectre of menopause and I reckon I’m going to be a barrel of laughs to live with. Or a barrel of monkeys. Poo-flinging monkeys.

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