Sunday, October 7, 2012

#76 He Doesn't Run From PMS

Men may never know the freedom they have lived blissfully unaware of by being born with only one X and one Y chromosome.  I speak of something that possesses women and causes them immense irrationality and discomfort without any word or notice.  Obviously, I speak of PMS.

After last Thursday morning, I'm surprised that my husband didn't buy me a plane ticket and send me away to be alone for the next five to seven days.

In order to understand my morning, you have to understand the mornings I've been having so far this school year.

In an effort to make my mornings less hectic, with less scrambling all over and about, I've made two changes:

1. I pick my outfits for the entire week out on Sunday nights
2. Every night I make my lunch for the next day

This leaves me in the morning only needing to take care of bathroom business, put on the clothes and makeup, and grab my lunchbox on my way out the door.

With one exception: Breakfast.

You see, I'm already a terribly miserable person in the morning, but without food I'm pretty sure I compare to the creature from the black lagoon.  Therefore, breakfast is an absolute must.  I began the year making myself a cup of coffee and taking a Cliff bar for the road.  This worked pretty well and my mornings still continued to run smoothly.

Then one morning I decided that since I had become so efficient with my mornings I would test out if I had enough time to make toast and eggs.  And I found that it worked.  I had just enough time to fry a couple eggs, toast some bread, pour myself a glass of orange juice and then actually sit down and eat it before flying out the door for my day.

I blame PMS for the recent snag in my routine.

Please put all judgement aside before reading any further.

Ah, doesn't that feel good?

I woke up Thursday morning with the lingering desire to buy a breakfast sandwich from the General Store down the corner from my house.  Yet, I had already convinced myself the night before that I was not going to do that.  I was dressed and ready for my day with a minute to spare.  I walked into my kitchen and found myself still completely resistant to making the same breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast that I had been eating for the last few weeks.  

My eyes then gravitated to the box of apple cider doughnuts sitting innocently on the kitchen table.  I thought, "I've eaten a healthy breakfast everyday so far this school year.  I'm going to cheat a little!  I'm eating one of those doughnuts with some cinnamon coffee."

I grabbed my coffee mug, then realized it was dirty.  So, naturally, I wanted it to be clean.  And rather than grab a clean mug, that particular mug needed to be clean.  I looked in the sink and saw a pile of dirty dishes from the night before.  That led to the next ten minutes of time being spent cleaning my coffee mug and the other dishes.

(If you feel like you're in the middle of "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" don't worry, the feeling is mutual).

This gave me only five minutes to make my coffee, warm my doughnuts (Oh yes...warm your doughnuts, forever and always, amen), and grab my four hundred and eighty-two bags and head out the door.

Okay, I exaggerate a little.  It was only two bags, but in that moment, it felt like four hundred and eighty-two, maybe even eighty-three.

Here is where hubby entered the scene.  Because, I've forgotten one minor detail to my new morning routine.  Hubby's car broke down.  So I have been making breakfast for the both of us before he drives me to my mother's so I can carpool to work with her.

So now I've got the guilt lingering over my head that I didn't make him any breakfast.  I've got a warmed doughnut waiting for me in the microwave and I've got a cup of coffee that needs cream and sugar.  It's at this very moment that beads of sweat are pouring from areas of my body I didn't know existed and I realize that I'm going to want a travel coffee mug now rather than my at home coffee mug.  I grab the travel mug, dump the coffee in, sprinkle in some sugar, and open the fridge to milk.

Slam!...goes the fridge door.  Dump!...goes the coffee in the sink.  Slam!...goes the coffee travel mug into the sink.  And out the door goes my husband and me.

I drop off my handful of bags into the back seat and wobble into the passenger's seat still holding my purse and my obnoxiously sized water thermos.

Mind you, at this point, I'm overwhelmed, I'm frustrated, I'm HOT (in case you didn't get any of that from the previous descriptions).  I slam the water thermos on the dashboard in order to buckle my seat belt and Crack!...goes the window.  That's right, Crack!...goes the window.

It didn't seem possible that the lip of the lid of the thermos had even touched the glass, but in the moment I needed no further proof that it indeed had.  I'm sure hubby would have reamed me out that instant had I not broken down into the most pathetic out burst of tears known to woman kind.

And here is yet another reason why I love my hubby.  He doesn't run from PMS.  He faces it head on.

And then gently reminds me later that slamming things when I'm upset should probably be something I stop doing.

It really should be something I stop doing.

This and the cell phone incident combined are clear proof of that.  However, I'll have to save the cell phone story for another time...


1 comment:

  1. NO...tell the cell phone story now!