PMS and the attack of the killer date


Nov. 17, 2004, midnight | By Olivia Bevacqua | 16 years, 2 months ago

Menstrual cycle transforms sweet senior into boyfriend-attacking, modern-day Godzilla


I can feel the changes come over me as the night begins. My nails are transforming into pointed claws, and my teeth are growing into vicious fangs. The beast within has begun to rear its ugly head. That time of the month has come.

Every month, billions of women around the world turn into flesh-eating monsters because of Premenstrual Syndrome (PMS), a ghastly disease that gives ladies an appetite for chocolate, Midol and—in rarer cases—human souls. Men and children cringe in terror each time the change occurs, but none can escape our womanly wrath.

During this time of trial, there is one person I simply try to avoid: my boyfriend. The slightest misstep on his part could send me charging for his head like a rabid rhinoceros. When you add my PMS super-abilities to maim and destroy, my boyfriend becomes a prime target for annihilation. Considering that he's supposed to be picking me up for dinner in two minutes, this could be a problem.

I try to call it off, but it's too late. He's at my door, grinning like an idiot who just walked into a bear trap and doesn't even realize it. I pity the fool, but there's little I can do. His only hope is a miracle on my part: restrain myself from systematically dismembering him before the night is over. Let the good times roll.

The beast within

We arrive at the restaurant in high spirits. All is going deceptively well until he begins signaling to a girl across the room. What does he think he's doing? I hiss at him to stop.

"What's the big deal? I'm just trying to get us a waitress,” he says genially.

A likely story.

While I glower at him from across the table, he "orders his meal” from "Gretchen,” a blue-eyed vixen who looks like a Swedish ski model but obviously has the mind of a Swedish mountain goat. Unfortunately, my boyfriend can't tell the difference between a rocket scientist and a stalk of celery. It's a wonder he wound up with me.

We begin to eat. He smiles warmly. "You look beautiful tonight,” he says.
Tonight? That rat. "So I don't look beautiful all of the other times?” I snarl. Good luck climbing out of this grave, Bub. "And what was up with you and that Gretchen girl? You never smile at me like that. ”

He looks completely bewildered. Changing the subject, he points to a pretty painting on the wall.

I stare at the painting, silently wondering what it would look like smashed over his head.

The F-word

As the evening wears on, my boyfriend's future looks grim. I'm helpless against the sheer power of PMS; it's like watching a tsunami rolling in from sea and demolishing a small village. My boyfriend is an especially vulnerable village—after all, the dumb stuff he keeps saying only gets worse.

First, he deliberately tells me that I'm grotesquely obese. There is no girl in the history of God's green earth who has ever been anything but infuriated or deeply depressed to hear this news. Being in my fragile emotional state, I'm both.

"You think I'm fat? Why do you bother going out with me if I'm so fat? Why don't you just dump me for Gretchen?” I scream, hurling my fork at his head.

"Olivia, I swear, I just wanted to know if you were going to finish that sandwich! I wanted some of your food!” His feeble excuses are almost as aggravating as his misshapen head. I tell him as much, and he tells me that we have to leave.

But not without signaling Gretchen one last time. Stupid Swedish troll.

Foolish men

The drive home is as silent as a night in rural Mongolia. He's staring at the road, and I'm thinking about the horror show at the restaurant. I can't decide whether to feel bad or chalk it up as a victory that we both emerged with limbs intact.

At the door, he fumbles with the jacket he's carrying. "I was going to give you this at the restaurant, but you kept getting angry,” he says miserably. From his jacket bundle, he produces a single red rose.

PMS strikes again as I weep torrents of tears. "I was so mean to you tonight! I'm really sorry; I'm awful, and I shouldn't get a rose!”

He looks at me hopefully. "You like it?”

And so we make up and agree to never again be mean or flirt with Swedish women. He hugs me good night, but not before asking me out on a date for tomorrow night.

Idiot.



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