It’s coming. I feel it.
Been about 22 days, so a little early this month, but all the signs have arrived already. I’m dropping things left and right – actually more like violent flinging, projectile-like. Right before it comes I get clumsy, everything I touch or attempt to pick up slips from my hands; if I were a professional football player I’d be benched four days a month. I run into walls, trip up stairs. Fall off my shoes. Something to look forward to, however, is “Happy Pre-Menses Day.” In the 24 hours (or so) before, I’m happy as a clam, giddy as a school girl. I sing and skip and could write an opera given how freely the creative, boisterous juices flow.
And I get super horny.
Maybe it’s coming Wednesday because nips are inexplicably sore (no rough touch or tools in use this weekend) and I can feel the fluorescent “Vacancy” sign flickering on in my uterus, tickles and twitches meaning no one has checked in. Not this month.
Wouldn’t mind an early start because it means a quicker finish and the manfriend is playing a gig this weekend, a gig I’ve already picked out the dress for. A short Calvin Klein, super-light gauge and soft black sweater dress, three quarter sleeves with a metal zip up the front. Saucy and sassy with opaque tights and the new knee-high boots. And although cut a bit blouson, on heavy days a tarp can’t cover the bloat. Every cell seems to double, triple in size. Even upper arms feel like they’re retaining water, so Pillsbury Dough Boy plump one imagines a finger poke leaving a divet like the jam hole when making thumbprint cookies. Jowls come out, the neck expands (or so it feels) and (in an ironical twist) the belly extends to resemble a first trimester treat.
Certain if men had menstrual cycles we’d have more sick days allotted per year.