No. Not Sarah Palin’s uterus. Mine.
First it’s all, like, “well, maybe I’ll have a period tomorrow but gee—I don’t know. And I’m going to stop having them for good, soon, but I want to wait until you buy a big box of tampons from Costco first. I’ll break you, you know. I’ve got all decade.”
Then it makes my boobs all sore.
Then it makes me jumpy, so I literally go into my husband’s office and interrupt his work and tell him that when he drops a raisin on the kitchen floor I’m afraid that sticky stuff will get on the carpeting . . . as if we can’t talk about snack food and carpet care next time he takes a break.
And now it’s just sort of needling me with exactly the stupidest amount of pain you’ve ever heard of: not enough to justify taking a pain pill, but enough to make me antsy. Just enough that I can’t concentrate on what I’m reading.
You know, all along I’ve been thinking that Andrew Sullivan was exaggerating the uterine threat, but I now realize that when a uterus decides to make your life miserable, it can lead to a wretched existence, indeed.
Later; I’m reading up on do-it-yourself hysterectomies.
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I so recognize all of that. Warn your hubby; if you never really had PMS, you will now, for a few days before your now unpredictable periods. For you, I understand martinis, ibuprofen and weed do make it bearable.
I understand martinis, ibuprofen and weed do make it bearable..
.. and See’s chocolate. Good time to stock up on See’s.
I hear you, girl! I’m going through the same thing. Do you suppose we can get government-paid voluntary hysterectomies added to the health care bill, or do you have to actually have a child growing there and decide to end its life before that’s ok?