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Brand New Symptoms

I spent the first 12 minutes of my workday crawling around the parking lot yesterday morning.

PMS is real. And that bitch ain’t playin.

There’s a correlation. Women know.

Because each phase of our monthly cycle has its own set of symptoms. It ain’t all just cramps and bloating. And the irresistible urge to begin smacking every man we see in his penal region. Just because. Nope.

There are other treats.

Like the dropsies.

This is a real thing.

I mean, I’m a fairly clumsy person anyway. The coffee stains on just about every wall in my home is evidence enough of that. But around day 19 or 20 of my cycle, I start drop every-fucking-thing.

(Y’all know that I’m making those numbers up, right? You know I have no idea what day of my cycle I’m on. Ever. Right?)

I also completely lose the ability to focus. I turn into Rogue, basically. But a way more awkward version. That cusses a lot.

This is why I was crawling around the parking lot for 12 minutes yesterday morning.

Because when I got out of my car, I dropped my keys. No worries. I’ll just pick those up and grab my bag. Oop, there goes my phone. I’ll just bend over here and grab that poor little overly abused thing. Oh, damn. There goes my water bottle.

Now, those things are circular. They’ll roll for a bit. But I wasn’t real concerned, because a tire really should have caught that bitch at some point.

Preferably a tire within the same actual realm I was.

And if you’re a co-worker standing at your car low key observing all of this, maybe you do a girl a solid and point her in the right direction.

Because a good part of that 12 minutes was me trying to determine if I needed to employ physics or geometry to determine a trajectory. And then realizing that it was irrelevant because I don’t remember physics. Or geometry. Or what a trajectory is.

So I just started crawling around under random cars.

Until I finally found it. Six cars away.


At least I’ll be fully hydrated for whatever the rest of the day holds in store.

What it held was more evidence of my ever-evolving PMS symptoms.

A heightened fear response, for example.

We took the kids to a manufacturing plant. GPS Gina brought our big, clunky van to the backwoods of Franklin County.

Onto a single lane dirt road.

And then right on into someone’s driveway.

And this.

Now I have an issue with bridges. And water. But I can generally push myself on through to get where I’m going.

But there was no way in hell I was gonna let someone drive me across that little thing in a giant, rickety water-coffin van.

Father Phil, who was actually driving (and isn’t really a priest), seemed to think we could make it.

“No. That’s not our path. That wasn’t meant for us.”

“But this is the way GPS said to go.”

“GPS Gina is controlled by the government. This is how they start to thin the heard.”

Dennis jumped the hell out.

Even the kid that stays high was getting a little agitated.

“Back it up, man. Back it up right now.”

“Fine. But I think we could make it.”

We managed to convince Father Phil that we needed to approach from another road.

But I was in a fairly agitated state when we arrived and the plant manager said, “Sunshine. So that’s what you call yourself?”

Now, it’s important to note that I did not, in fact, slam his head through a wall. The way my mind was fantasizing. But apparently my response was less than friendly.

“No. I call myself Beautiful Princess Mother of All Knowledge. But my name is Sunshine. You may address me as Your Highness.”

Because dude spent the entire tour trying to make nice.

It was a pretty cool tour, though.

But my new PMS symptom nausea was kicking in full force by that point.

So when I went to Leg Day at PlayFITStayFIT, I spent the entire time half trying not to vomit (because I’m pretty sure J-Vicious would require 30 burpees for failing to control my bodily functions) and half praying that I would.

And him hopping right up on the sled I was trying to push didn’t help. (Although when I finally managed to kick him off, that thing felt light as a damn feather. I’m not sayin. I’m just sayin.)

I’ve also got this brand new symptom that I won’t share. Because J-Vicious accused me yesterday of not being modest. When I tried to get out of the tire pulls. Because my running skirt kept flipping up in the back. And that felt inappropriate. And I’m all about being appropriate in all situations. And totally not concerned with the fact that tire pulls brought the non-existent PMS bile to about the base of my esophagus, but wouldn’t just bring it the rest of the way on out. Because it’s not real. It’s just a freakin symptom.

But if you’re curious about this new symptom, because you wanna know how much of a freak of nature I am, just ask Rogue and Fall Risk. Because they’ve been listening to me whine about it for the last twelve hours.

I will tell you it is sending me into random rages.

I almost snatched this bitch up and walked it around the Higher Ed Center questioning who took all of whatever was in it, and demanding to be compensated for missing out.

I suspect it was cookies.

I love cookies.

I’m gonna need this phase to cycle right on through.

So I can return to being my usual, pleasant, totally put together self.

But today is not that day.

Arm Day should be excellent this afternoon. I probably won’t slam a weight upside Muscular White Gut’s head.

Because I won’t be able to.

Because arm day…


Just reading and writing and running and looking for my happy place.


  1. martywinn says:

    The first time I read “Muscular White Gut” I thought it was a typo and you meant guy. Now that I have seen it twice I recognize it must be an even more colorful nickname than I was anticipating that you have bestowed upon him.

    1. Actually, it did start as a typo. That he made when trying to refer to himself as the Muscular White Guy. And he knew immediately that because he was trying to be all sarcastic and cute, he would forever be know as Muscular White Gut in the blogosphere. Except when he’s being especially mean. And then he’s J-Vicious.

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