PMS?

OK. Math lesson. Take 51 and subtract 13. Multiply by 365.25. Then divide by 28. If you do that, you will come up with about 459 menstrual cycles over the course of my lifetime. All those bouts of PMS. Somethings, if you do them often enough, long enough, regularly enough... well, a body remembers.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have no earthly reason to be having PMS anymore. But you couldn't have proved it by me this weekend: lower backache; tender boobs, and pissiness that would have gotten someone killed if I'd had a gun handy. Lucky damn thing that I tend toward the pacifist side of things!!! Maybe it is that there are still tendrils of estrogen floating through the system. Maybe the endocrine system is more widely proactive than we thought, and refuses to give it up just because some lunatic with a knife yanks a few errant organs. Maybe it really is cellular memory that just simply KNOWS that it is THAT TIME of the month, and surgical interventions be DAMNED!!!

At any rate, there wasn't very much that didn't hack me off this weekend. I was "bent" over pretty much the whole state of the universe. Feeling crappy didn't help. The sweeter than syrup cooking chicky on T's cooking channel made me want to murder someone with a spoon. The fact that there were "family" festivities to partake in did not make me feel all warm and fuzzy. That the whole bloomin city was abuzz with joy and excitement because our esteemed President was coming to town to throw out the first pitch at today's opening day game for the Cincinnati Reds baseball team just made my hackles rise. That Master found some perky chick doing a podcast on poly that He insisted on playing the whole time I flew around like a wild woman, trying to get everything crammed into entirely too little time yesterday afternoon made me want to cram His laptop into some anatomically improbable places. Well, you get the picture...

Added to the fact that I ran smack into some new territory on my road to post-hysterectomy sexual functioning that I wasn't prepared for and wasn't expecting on Saturday morning (maybe another post -- maybe), and I was dropped right back into wondering why I ever agreed to the damn surgery in the first place. Nevermind that there really were no options. And yes, I know that the medical realities were that I was way more medically compromised than I knew or realized at the time. Still, it sucks and I'm pissed and not happy and scared and freaked out and wishing it would all just get magically fixed like right now.

There.
Done.
Pout.

swan