Going down with the PMS Boat

I am thirty-five, never been married, and have come to the conclusion just today, actually just ten minutes ago, that I need to be alone. Very alone. Why? Because once a month I get a twitch in my upper lip, which signals to me that my right eye will soon do the same. When this happens, I know my boobs are going to find nerve endings that weren't previously there, and proceed to squeeeeeeeeze them beyond the point of bearable. Strong breezes will make me jumpy. Right about then, my coping skills will slip the planet.

This descended upon me earlier, and came clanging through my brain like the Liberty Bell just before I picked up the phone to call my boyfriend. I felt it in every pore, the undeniable broadcast of I'm going to be a bitch, and a freaking lunatic. I'm going to cry and carry on all wild-eyed and small children will run from me. My dog will lead the way, she's been there, done that. She knows the signs and already has a preappointed destination.

As soon as it hit me, I put the receiver back down. My boyfriend, as sweet and understanding as he is, does not understand or deserve the onslaught that will inevitably come spewing from my mouth over something like..."hello."

No. I decided in all my tainted, tar-tinted wisdom to not bring the innocent into my personal hell. After all, what normal male can possibly understand the pain involved by the sudden unbidden memory of my dog dying when I was eight years old? Or the unforgivable look that kid down the street gave me this morning when I asked him to move his bike. These things sink deep!

So I've decided that not only do I not need to be around people right now, but I really should commit to the idea of not signing anyone else up for a lifetime plan. Because I'm telling you, my mouth does vile things totally independent of me. Why would anyone want that coming to them every four weeks? Not to mention when the man would tell me I'm too tense, I'd have to choke back every other nasty response while actually grinding out through clenched teeth, "I'm just terribly, terribly, alert--dear."

Maybe I should look into becoming a nun. No, I like sex too much. But, then, there is that need of a man again. And there's the little matter of not being Catholic.

Maybe I'll just hole up in my apartment and put a sign on the door that says, "Don't bother me, I'm living happily ever after."