Weighing in on the PMS

In the olden days, before anti-depressants, I revelled in the permission to go completely nuts for a week each month, crunching on the bones of anyone that got in my way.

 It turns out, I was depressed.  In the last couple of years, since I found a happy little anti-depressant, (and Yay pharmacology, by the way!), the PMS isn’t so much the issue.  Every few months, when my period starts, I’ll say to Scott – “Remember last week when I got so crabby about X?” (where X=something ridiculously inconsequential), “I think that was PMS.” And he says, “Yeah, I figured.  I wasn’t going to say anything.”

That’s the nicer thing, I think, about older men who have been around the block enough to know that “hey, are you having PMS?” is not the line of questioning you want to take at that point.

 I do, however, sort of look forward to menopause, and not actually having a period anymore.  My mind, having come to terms with the fact that my endometrial lining is now facing obsolescence, sort of wishes my body would climb on board.  As I get older, my period seems shorter, but slightly more frequent.  I don’t really keep track of it any more, knowing the drill as I do.