No, it's not this season's critically acclaimed romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock (because, let's face it, they were great together in Two Weeks' Notice and I've never seen another genre of movie with one of them in it and if you mention Speed I'll have to kill you because obviously, it was a comedy).I'm talking about PMS.
This Saturday saw me crying like a baby while watching (for the 20th time) Audrey Tautou in Amelie. It made me think about how wonderful love is and how I should appreciate it more often. Then love walked in the door; I proceeded to act cold and blamed him for my mood-inspired breakfast of 2 pieces of toast with butter, 2 chocolate chip cookies and a handful of potato chips.
Two hours later I'm in love again. Especially when he washes the dishes; isn't that so sweet? It's very sexy, a man doing household chores. So sexy in fact, that a strip tease is in order to let him know exactly how appreciative of him I am. However, at some point I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in all my naked-from-the-waist-up glory. When I lean over a bit, my breasts kind of resemble something very unsexy.
"Why haven't you ever told me I have udders?!" I ask a man who suddenly looks part "deer-in-the-headlights" and part agonizing blue balls.
Somewhere between retaining water and a dinner party at which I find out James Taylor's son is a pedophile (that's a whole other story), my hormones finally level out and I remind myself that in some African tribes sagging breasts are a sign of royalty. Or something like that.
2 comments:
Oh my god, it must have been the weekend for it. Our Saturday night saw me develop from uber-loving girlfriend to spitting spawn-donkey in the space of moments - and my excuse? Not wanting to wear contact lenses at midnight of course. Yep - they don't come more reasonable than me...
PMS = Pre, Peri or Post Menstrual Syndrome. You can't win.
And neither can they...Mua ha ha!
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