Valerie Roney

So the other night, as I’m pull my head out of a Bronte novel and find myself wandering around the house in my underpants listening to David Gray and eating peanut butter from a spoon, it occurs to me I *might* be mopey [Here, you can listen to a David Gray song and feel a wee bit mopey too]. As I check in to the background noise in my head and find it angsty and full of longing, wondering where the hell that’s coming from, it occurs to me I’m simply hormonal.

When the full on cramps and general misery hit me the next day my suspicions are confirmed and it’s time to assume the position (curled up on the couch with a hot water bottle and a good book, alternating between doses of ibuprofen and chocolate).

[As an aside, if my poor mother has to read me write about sex, and using “that f-word” then ya’ll are gonna just have to suffer through me talking about my period for a moment here…]

So yeah, I get really tired the first day or so of my period, pretty much a guaranteed couch day. Now that I’m old and wise I don’t fight that, I just have my day. There’s a strange liberty to this awareness of the PMS and that first day of downtime. As soon as I register I’m hormonal, all obligations to be a rational emotional creature are moot, I can eat whatever the hell I want, and I’m taking a day of 100% me time, to nurture/rest/pity/bitch as I see fit.

Once every 28 days, I give myself license to just be (see, this totally ties in to my commentary on Taoism), though maybe if I was wiser I would give myself this license  everyday. The thing is, I got thinking about the backward blessing my vexing reproductive bits have given me, and I’m thinking guys are totally getting the short end of the stick here.

Not only are they periodically (and seemingly randomly) suddenly forced to deal with the what-the-hell? of some hormonal woman in their life, but hey man! where’s THEIR day?

I think they totally deserve their own PMS day – they can call it their Periodic Monthly Shutdown or somesuch. One day a month where they can just be themselves and are exempt from normal social expectations. A day where they don’t have to talk about their feelings, or share anything about what they’re thinking; a day they can spend sitting on the couch playing video games until Ducks Unlimited wants to declare their swamp-butt a protected space; a day of eating nothing but bacon and Pop-Tarts (or bacon-wrapped Pop-Tarts! – just don’t put those in the toaster, that shit will catch on fire).

Have at ‘er! Whatever it is you want to do, my testosterone addled friends, mark it on the calendar, and take YOUR day. We chicks will totally understand.