Menstruation is nature’s way of saying “Told you so!”. I mean, every month, I stomp around for a couple of days, sniping about this, that and the other and, if challenged, shouting: “THIS ISN’T MY HORMONES TALKING, THIS IS HOW I FEEEEEEEEL!” And then the silent red ninja pays a visit and I suddenly feel normal again (and just a little bit foolish).
And, most certainly, there’s nothing like PMT to help get you into the spirit of Christmas. Why, just last week, I was galumphing about like I’d just had an extra large serve of BAHUMBUG with my breakfast, muttering “Stupid Christmas” under my breath at every opportunity.
Everything just seemed TOO DIFFICULT. From planning our driving route to our Christmas Destination (“WHO DECIDED TO MAKE AUSTRALIA SO BLOODY BIG!”), to coordinating our social schedule (“WHO THOUGHT PUTTING CHRISTMAS AT THE END OF THE CALENDAR YEAR WAS A GOOD IDEA?”), to making Christmas Cookies with the children (“FARRRGGGGGHHH!”).
And then there were the Christmas Cards. Every day, The Pixie and Mr Justice have been bringing home a steady stream of Christmas cards from kindergarten and school. The pressure to reciprocate is so great that I’ve almost considered home-schooling the kids – for one thing, the class size would be much smaller and their attention span might last the duration of the task, as opposed to it being stretched over many many days and ending with me forging their signature on the last seven cards just to get the bloody thing done (true story).
Anyway, on this particular PMT-enhanced day, The Pixie decided to DEVIATE FROM THE OFFICIAL CLASS LIST and write a spontaneous card for Tiddles McGee that meant we were then one card short of covering her class. So, instead of being happy she loved her brother so much, I completely lost it and, sweeping all the cards up from the table, I stomped into my room and threw them onto the bed and then slammed the door shut so I didn’t have to look at them for another second more. Nice one. Luckily, I stopped short of setting the bed on fire – although in the darker corners of my red-misted mind, I must admit that I imagined it for one brief thrilling moment.
Look, I understand Christmas cards on a certain level. Amongst adults, it’s a kind of communication amnesty: it allows people to say “Hey, I haven’t managed to return your calls or reply to your emails or even send a postcard all year but here’s a cute picture of a puppy in a Santa hat to say I’m thinking of you (along with everyone else on my list).”
But I don’t understand electronic Christmas cards. All it says to me is someone typed my name and email address into a field box. If the sender had personally created the animated gif of Santa farting a snowball, then maybe… just maybe… But still, I can’t put an electronic card on my mantlepiece to show visitors Just How Popular I Am. So it begs the question: “What is the frickin’ point?”
Okay, okay, I know I’m just jealous of the people who get their shit together enough to do Christmas cards – real or electronic. Those few years that I’ve managed the hard copy kind, there’s something really nice about a taking a stack of neatly addressed envelopes all the same size to the post-box. You feel all virtuous. It’s the kind of thing that can sanction a month-long drinking binge or give you a license to make everyone at the Company Christmas Party dance The Macarena. You can do whatever the hell you like because you sent your christmas cards.
Anyway, it’s too late for me to send Christmas cards this year, especially since I lost at least a week in Pre-Menstrual Tension and During-Menstral-Tension being grumpy about them.
Which makes me think that Ebenezer Scrooge must have been a woman in drag having a month-long run-up to her period. You know it makes sense.