My emotions and I are having a little bit of a rough week.

A week of PMS – a full, freaking week of it.  Daylight Savings.  Half-days and teacher work days.  Shifts at the book fair -not necessarily a stressor, and definitely not something I mind doing, but something I have to remember to do.  A trip to the doctor when Nicolas reacted to a medication – he’s fine, no worries.  Political “stuff” I don’t completely understand in an organization I’m involved in.  And an awesome, wonderful blogger, whose writing I adore, has cancer.

These are the things that add up to me wanting to crawl into a hole and come out when someone else has done the dishes piled up in the sink and on the counter, folded the laundry in the baskets, and made me a giant chocolate cake.  Or, when someone has broken in and stolen everything (including the mess), allowing me to start from square one.

That doesn’t happen.  What does happen, however, when I’m in this state goes something along the lines of:

Me: I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Jason: (fresh in from work and holding a bag of fast food, because he could tell from my voice on the phone that cooking dinner was well outside my sanity level this particular evening): I do.

Me: What do you mean?  Why am I so out of it, so tired, so hungry all the time?  Why can’t I focus on anything?

Jason: *Staring meaningfully at me, waiting for realization to hit*

Me: …?…

Jason: Isn’t it about time…?

Me: OHhhhhhhhhhhh.  Yeah.

I find it flabbergasting that there are people out there who don’t “believe in” PMS.  Or, alternatively, who snidely snicker over women’s changing emotions like it’s a sign of weakness or an excuse to be a bitch.  I mean, really…anyone who’s ever experienced it would never choose to have to deal with this kind of crap on a regular basis.  Or ever.  It’s basically several days of clinical depression each month, only I never remember it being as bad as it always seems to end up being.  This month is particularly worse than usual, reminding me very much of PPD, probably for the reasons I mentioned.

So, here’s how I deal with PMS*: I get through the daylight hours and look forward to 6pm.  By that time, Jason’s usually home from work, hugging me, telling me he appreciates me, and taking over dinner, the kids, and me.  As in, “Here’s a burger.  Go.  Sit.  Eat.”  He remembers when I’m too distressed to that beef does my body good when I’m in this state.  A burger – even an unhealthy, fried, fast food one – does the double duty of settling my hormones and acting as comfort food.  I don’t know why I never manage to remember this, and half the time, when Jason hands me a burger, I still don’t remember why.  I just hug him, go, sit, and eat.  And feel loads better within moments.

Seriously, is there anything better than having a spouse  or partner who gets you?  Who just plain gets you and knows exactly what you need when you’re far from your best?  I can’t imagine there is.

*Today, I discovered another good thing to have in your anti-PMS arsenal: a good friend and Starbucks.  Unbeatable combination when you feel like screaming your fool head off.  I’ve already thanked her in person and on Facebook and Twitter, but THANK YOU, j.  I don’t know if you realize how valuable that hour was.


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