My husband asked me, “What’s wrong?” He could tell that it was more than just a routine case of the pre-coffee morning grouchies. It was something beyond my control. He caught me in the midst of a hormonal roller coaster. I was on a series of upside down loops. Feeling out of control. About everything. And the laundry everywhere was taunting me, taking over, well, every room I entered. I didn’t know where to even begin. So, naturally, I called the paper shredding company to find out if I could drop off a garbage bag full of papers to shred. Sure, the guy told me, for $60. He seemed nice enough, but my goodness, would they be hand-cutting each paper with kids scissors? In his defense, he could have told me he would pick it up for free and bring me a Starbucks drink of my choice. And, undoubtedly, I would have found something wrong with his generous offer.
Sometimes, I just want to loan my uterus to my husband for a month. Or two. I know it seems like a complicated process. Insurance probably wouldn’t cover it, but I think he would benefit from a first-hand, personal experience with the craziness that takes over your thoughts, your body, and your emotions when your uterus gets the spotlight and a microphone and starts speaking on behalf of the whole rest of your body. So, I answered my husband,
“I’m grouchy and my freakin’ uterus is shedding.”
He, like most men, didn’t want in on any of the details. I think he felt a little remorseful for even asking. Please stop. Don’t talk about a tampon. It’s scowling, cover-his-ears kind of awkwardness. Retreat. Retreat. And don’t call his underwear “panties” either. Or they will quickly get all in a wad. Because he doesn’t wear “panties.” They. Are. Underwear. So, you’re saying, boxer panties, right?
I know I’m being irrational, short-fused and utterly annoyed by people’s existence. Why would they do that? Be alive. Or say that? “Hi.” Or look that way? Cute. Just stop talking. And don’t look at me. I don’t think that it would help much during this time to have daughters, but having three young boys asking what a tampon is and trying to constantly barge in the bathroom can really make matters worse. “I need some privacy. Please.” They just don’t understand. Can I just borrow a grown woman for about a week out of each month? Until I hit menopause. I think it would really help to have someone hang out in my closet with me that understands and can say, “I know. Oh, uteruses. They’re so hysterical sometimes.”
I don’t really love roller coasters at amusement parks anymore. Heck, I nearly lost it on a Ferris wheel a few weeks ago. I think the oxygen disappeared as we neared the top. I start to get motion sickness just looking at them. My stomach drops and I feel like I need to cross my legs, I’m going to pee my pants. But, man oh man. These hormonal roller coasters? I will take a barf bag and an extra set of pants over these any day. It’s just too many emotions trying to get in on the action. Settle down. None of them are even listening to me. Did they learn this behavior from my kids? Why would they listen to me? It’s only my body. Sometimes. However, it’s under the influence of a moody female dictator. The uterus. I know. I know. I should be happy and grateful that I have one. And I am, especially the weeks out of the month when she’s not trying so hard to get my attention. Everyone’s attention. I’ll be happier when she drops the mic. Sits down.
If I could just put a little more time and energy into the loan-a-uterus program. Work out a few logistics. My husband surely would be the first to volunteer to be a guinea pig. Then other men would be lining up, out the door. I’m sure of it. The female under the direction of the uterus can be pretty persuasive. And a little intimidating too. I can just hear premenstrual women right now saying, “you’re going to sign up for that loan-a-uterus program, right, Hon?”
The answer is “Yep…” Silent thought bubble saying, “Anything to get out of the house.” Maybe they can even have a few beers before the procedure. It may help during the part where the doctors talk to them about the difference between tampons and pads.
Loan-A-Uterus. A woman can dream.