Hormones and uncontrolled emotions

I’m 30+, I’ve dealt with these beautiful things called hormones, for give or take two decades and I’m still not be able to control them.

We know they have a mind of their own, they do their own thing, whether you want it or not. However, by this age, you at least get a grip on understanding them. You realize when you’re being silly and when they’re taking over your whole being. You still can’t help them but at least you know you’re not going out of your mind, that you just need to wait for a couple of days and it’ll all be over.

What I’ve realized personally is that our dear old friend PMS, the meanest bitch in town, only shows up when there’s a man in my life. Seriously. I don’t know about you, but give me months and months of singledom and I’m fine. No tear mid month, no excessive nerves for no reason at all, no getting offended. I’m serene. I go through the month on a stable monotone of a good mood.

Put a man in the equation and I get tearful, fuming and easily offended, not by anyone – by him. What the heck is wrong with me?

So not only am I picky on my choice, then give him a bit of a hard time to see if he’s dating material, I also have to give him some melodrama to handle as well. I’m telling you, whoever gets to marry me should win a shining gold medal, one as important as that of a winning triathlon athlete. It’s a good variation of it, he should swim through my tears, run through my nerves and cycle over my offensiveness. Then again, don’t all coupled up men have to deal with that? Please say yes.

Let’s take two scenarios:

Scenario A –

I’m single – I wake up in the morning, Diego, my dog decides not to wait for me for his morning walk and pees across the hallway, making a beautiful massive lake that doesn’t exactly smell of flowers, right there, as soon as I wake up. I haven’t even had time to put the kettle on for my morning tea, I haven’t even defrosted my daily slice of bread for the morning toast, one eye’s open, the other eye’s lids are glued together by yesterday’s mascara, yet all I say is: “Oh! Come on Diego! Seriously?” I’m not even screaming, I’m still too out of it to even have the energy to be pissed off, so I just simply “tell him off” under my breath, that he hardly realizes I’m speaking to him.

I have my breakfast, get the cleaning over and done with and take him out. It’s started raining, I don’t have an umbrella with me, but I’m lucky enough to have a minute hoodie, I pull it up but at the same time Diego sees a cat and lashes out for it, only to catch me unprepared and gives me a jolt forwards worth of a backlash. The leash pulls me so hard, I feel like a cartoon character, one moment I’m at point A, next thing I know I find myself magically landed on point B, but I was so fast that if there was a passerby, they’d think I was a magician. Now you see me here, now by some kind of magic I’m there. Round of applause!

I get closer to the dog, I “tell him off” again. I still don’t have enough energy to get pissed off. I let him finish his business, turn on my heels to go back home, only to realize I’ve turned my heels on the worst spot I could have on the street – a nice fresh cupcake, some other dog owner did not pick up a few minutes earlier, which has beautifully melted down with the rain! Gwate, just gwate. Still, I breathe in, roll my eyes, clean my shoes in the next patch of grass I find and I’m sorted.

Day at the office sucks, PC crashes just before I save that project I’ve been working on all day, toilet overflows as soon as I flush. I mean seriously, out of the whole 300 people in the office, it has to overflow while I’m flushing it? Anyway, breathe in, eye roll. It’s soon going to be over.

I drive back home, I think to myself, “I’m safe now. I’ll just stick a frozen pizza in the oven and have a nice glass of red wine. It’s all good.” I open the freezer, stick it in the oven and oops, powercut.

Say what? Breathe in, eye roll, grab a couple of biscuits, down the glass of red wine and off to bed I go.

Seven tragedies in a day, many breathing exercises and eye rolling but not a tear, not a scream, nada.

Scenario B –

I’m coupled up.

It’s 7am in the morning, he wakes me up gently and puts my favourite mug by my bedside to the sweet words of: “Rise and shine sweetheart, I’ve prepared your favourite brew this morning.”

I sit up eagerly, the eyelids of one eye still stuck from yesterday’s mascara. Yes, some things never change. I grab my favourite mug with both hands, he sits next to me in bed.

I smile at him and think how sweet of a gesture that was. I breathe in the sweet aroma of vanilla milky tea and think to myself, “Ah, this must be the drink of gods!” I take a sip and the heavenly gardens I had been seeing when I took in the aroma of the tea fades into a little dark stinky public toilet. He’s forgot to put the sugar in!

My oh my. I know he’s been sweet. I know I shouldn’t put up a fuss. I try and hold it. I really do. But it happens. My eyes well up, I try to look up at the ceiling to hold the tears back and not cry. But there’s always that cheater that makes a run for it and falls quickly down the side of my face. Which side of my face? The one where he’s sitting, of course. He looks at me perplexed. “Honey? Is something wrong?”

I can’t even reply. I know that if I do, more cheaters will slide down both sides of my face now. So I try to breathe in, but my nose is too busy trying to hold those tears back, so it’s going to drip, I try and put my hand in front of it, very ladylike. I want to hold it, I really can’t understand why I’m making a fuss. I realize it’s stupid. It’s sugar. Just sugar. I can walk to the kitchen with those eyelids still stuck together and get some sugar. It’s no big deal, I know it but I just can’t help it.

Down go all the cheaters, showing him how fragile I am in that moment. Fragile? I mean fragile about what? He’s prepared tea, there’s just no sugar. Get a hold of yourself woman!

I’m still not talking because the flow is just bad enough already, if I open my mouth I know it’s just gonna start sobbing and I already know crying over sugar is already melodramatic enough. So I shut my mouth, to save myself, to save him.

He keeps trying to guess what’s wrong – Is it work? Is it financial matters? Are you still emotional over yesterday’s movie? He tries them all.

After a long tearful silence, I just manage to utter one word, “Sugar.”

He just looks at me with the puzzled eyes of a vet who’s just given birth to the cutest baby penguin, only the mother he’d been assisting was an elephant.

Of course he’s puzzled. He’s treated me to tea in bed, with my favourite brew, while I was still enjoying the comforts of dreamland and just because he’s forgotten to put sugar in my mug, I cry?

I know. I do realize I’m over reacting but I just can’t help it. I tell him that, but on the second word, I stumble on my sobs.

“I know <sob>, honey <sob>, I’m over<sob>reacting, over nothing <sob>. It’s just sugar <sob>, I know <sob>. I can’t help it <sob> I’m sorry. <sob>”

He just sits there, mug in hand, trying to understand but he just can’t. Well, of course he can’t, neither can I.

I seriously propose a study into these two scenarios –

PMS variations in mated & unmated female homo-sapiens.

There’d better be a scientific explanation to this, because if there isn’t, I’ll panic. I’d ask Discovery to include it in one of the Mystery Files together with the Bermuda Triangle and UFO sightings. Please, science, do tell me I’m not alone in this Mystery File.
Image – S.o.L.e.


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