Okay guys, be honest: How many times has this happened to you?
It's an otherwise typical evening.
You walk in the door, carrying a bag of your lady's
favorite tasty take-out food for two, only to find that
she's gotten home just a few minutes ahead of you.
"Hi honey," you sing in
melodic tones straight from a 60s family sitcom.
"How's your day?"
"How come you didn't call me at
noon?" she asks, unseen, lurking around the hallway
corner like a predator ready to pounce.
You think back to lunch hour, and
remember how that one client called you with a
last-second crisis. You decided to delay lunch briefly to
handle the problem, but when you called your lady's
office number -- at about three minutes after noon -- you
got only her voice mail and left her a message.
"Didn't you get my voice
mail?" you ask sheepishly, still not seeing her
around the corner.
"I thought you were going to
call me at noon," she says in a voice equal parts
whine and growl, rounding the corner like an ocelot on
the hunt. "I got so impatient waiting for your call
that I just went off to lunch. That's so inconsiderate,
and unthinking, and uncaring, and it just pisses me off
because everyone else's guy manages to call them every
day and some even get flowers once in a while and a few
even get taken to lunch now and then, but me? No. I have
to put up with a lazy, slobby, inconsiderate guy whose
stubble hurts me every time I kiss him and who can't cut
his toenails and when he does cut 'em he leaves clippings
all over the house and never picks anything up and NEVER
takes care of dinner…"
Noticing the take-out bag, she
suddenly stops, closes her eyes, rubs her brow and issues
a heavy sigh. "I hope you brought home something
salty."
Sound familiar, gents? Grab your
helmets and Kevlar, boys, you've entered another
dimension. A dimension not only of irritability and
impatience, but also of salt-and-chocolate cravings. It's time once again for that
monthly test of your chivalry. The signpost ahead says,
"Next stop: The PMS Zone."
Boys, you don't need me to tell you
this -- indeed, what's a 6-foot-4, 240-pound barely
evolved gorilla like me doing writing about PMS, anyway?
-- but just in case you think you're imagining all of
this, think again.
It's not all in your head. The chances
are good that no matter how much you love her, cherish
her and adore her, your beloved Julie Jekyll is going to
turn into a temporarily insane,
salt-and-chocolate-seeking cranky Miss Hyde a couple of
days every month.
Want proof? Look to the arts.
Remember that line from As Good As It Gets, where
Jack Nicholson's character described women by saying,
"I think of a man, and I take away reason and
accountability?" What do you think inspired that
line, anyway? Normal, 25-days-every-month behavior?
For another example, how about Shawn
Colvin's hit song from a couple of years back,
"Sunny Came Home?" In it, Sunny decides to
effect "a few small repairs" by burning her
house to the ground for no apparent reason. To those who
blamed PMS for Sunny's behavior, I can only say,
"Gee, ya think?"
Ladies, please don't think that I'm
making light of your predicament. I can assure you most
solemnly that men suffer from exactly the same symptoms.
Curiously, we get them at exactly the same time -- but
for different reasons. Irritability? It's contagious.
Tension? Ditto. Bloating and water-weight gain? Yes, we
found the salty-snack stash, and my, it looked tasty.
Cramps and tenderness? Honey, when you're feeling cranky,
could you do something other than elbow me in the gut?
Of course, you do what you can to
relieve the symptoms. For typical guys, symptom relief
involves finding a safe place to hide, preferably with a
lock on the door. That's why God invented dens.
Or, if you’re a really
good guy, you may try to alleviate the problem by helping
the love of your life to find a little relief. You'll
fill hot water bottles. You'll keep a box of Midol handy.
You'll rub her back, her shoulders, her feet. You'll
listen to her ravings without laughing or getting
offended. You'll lay out her "fat clothes" for
her without ever letting on that you know what "fat
clothes" are.
And guys, if you're at all handy in
the kitchen, it takes only a few minutes to make a little
melted-chocolate and pretzel-stick snack to satisfy her
PMS-induced cravings. Feeling creative? Try arranging the
pretzel sticks into little stick figures before
slathering on the melted chocolate. She'll giggle, and
she'll get to satisfy that deep-seated urge to bite the
head off something.
But of course, when the moment
comes, only the most special of guys will brave their
fears and do what no man should ever be expected to do.
It involves making that run to the local drugstore and
facing "The Wall."
What's "The Wall," you
ask? At last count, in the feminine-care aisle of your
average Walgreen's, there were approximately 4,000
varieties and 360,000 possible permutations of products
available. Scented. Unscented. Plastic. Cardboard.
Flushable. Disposable. Maxis. Minis. Liners. Wings. No
wings. One, two or three adhesive strips. Belted --
yipes. Light days. Medium days. Heavy days. Apocalypse.
Do the math. With so many varieties
available, and even if the store has only three boxes of
each variety available, successful pad shopping can be as
impossible as finding a specific brick in The Great Wall
of China. Face "The Wall" for the first time
and you'll stand there, stroking your stubbly chin and
looking completely dumbfounded until you ask for
directions. And guys, you know how we are about that.
I've been there. Gentlemen, should
you decide to brave The Wall, I have only two survival
tips to offer.
Second, after you've found the One
True Box of that desired feminine-care product and you're
going through the checkout, when you get the funny look
from the cashier, just wink and say, "C'mon, they're
for me."
But first, before ever facing
The Wall, make sure you know exactly what it is
you're looking for. Have your lady provide written
instructions, if possible -- brand, scented or unscented,
with wings or without, plastic or cardboard, color of the
box, shelf location, everything. Remember, if your love
wants you to make "the run," she's probably
feeling really rotten, irritable, cranky. The risk you
take is in bringing home the wrong item.
"Hi honey," you'll sing in
melodic tones straight from a 60s family sitcom. "I
think I got what you wanted -- the 20-pack of Playtex
flushable scented three-adhesive-strip minis with
comfort-wrap, dry-weave and wings, in the pink box."
"I wanted the unscented,"
she'll say in a voice equal parts whine and growl.
"That's so inconsiderate, and unthinking, and
uncaring, and it just pisses me off because everyone
else's guy manages to get it right and some even get
flowers once in a while and a few even get taken to lunch
now and then, but me? No..."
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