An Open Letter to PMS

Dear PMS:

Just why?

Who do you think you are? I mean really. You come around once a month like that annoying friend you don’t really want to hear from, yet every month, without fail, she asks you for plans and you feel sort of obligated. So you give in, but then coffee turns into an all day shopping ordeal and by the end you want to tear your hair out because now not only did you learn that you can’t stand the person you are with, but  – bonus lesson! – you learned that eating cookies DOES in fact equal having to buy a size up in your jeans.

Well that’s how I feel with you. Only instead of a day, it’s 5 and the only person I can’t stand to be around is myself. (The part of the too-tight jeans rings true thanks to you making me feel the urge to eat a bag of something salty, which of course leads me to want something sweet, which then of course leads me to want a tuna sandwich. I know! I don’t get it either!)

You make me weepy. I cry at Disney commercials (true story) and when the cheesy music comes on as the lesson is learned at the end of Full House. Strike that – you make me actually want to watch Full House.

You make my boobs hurt so much that I have to wear two sports bras to workout…and one to sleep. I can’t even put a shirt on without wincing in pain; forget sleeping on my stomach. Or, I don’t know, letting a boy anywhere near them.

You make my skin revert back to its 13 year old ways. Do you remember what its like to be 13, PMS? Do you? I don’t think you do, because if you did then you would vividly remember the time that cute boy Josh Schwartz asked me why Mount Everest decide to relocate to my face because, in his opinion, Mt. Everest was doing just fine where it was and that I should be in an advertisement for Clearasil. That would be reason enough to never ever give me a pimple again. But noooo – even in my young adult life, every month you feel the need to sprout a pimple right in the center of my face. And not just any pimple – you prefer the special giant kind that starts from underneath and is more painful than any period cramp in the history of cramps.  (Don’t even get me started on those.)

You make me moody – probabaly because I look like sh*t and my pants don’t button – but either way I’m a total bitch to the rest of the world. And the worst part is: I realize I’m doing it. Inside my head I say, “Jill stop being such a moody bitch,” but then word vomit – the bitch version – takes over and everything mean and insensitive and downright bitchy just comes out.

I mean, I get it – they (my mother) say you are really a gift because not only do I know for sure that I’m not popping one out in 9 months, but you are also preparing me for childbirth. That the cramps are really a blessing because they are preparing me for contractions. That I should embrace mother nature and say “No means NO” to Advil and instead say “Hollerrrr!” to an amazing experience that will one day be a baby’s head coming out of my Vagina.

But I. don’t. care. I saw Knocked Up and I am already in therapy for it, so give me a freaking break. Much like the annoying drunk, the needy girl and the chick who always ditches her friends for her boyfriend, you are one friend I can definitely do without.

That is all.

No love,

Weekly Wrap Up: We Love You, Coffee!
Weekly Wrap Up: We Love You, Coffee!
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