I’m redrum-ing it. You know what I mean, ladies.
Boys, feel free to keep reading, you may learn a thing or two about how to handle a woman whose body is literally punishing itself for not being pregnant with your ADHD riddled progeny.
It all started Sunday afternoon while I was conforming to archaic gender stereotypes, minding my own business just swoop, swoop, swooping the vacuum cleaner across the floor when BAM!
I doubled over in pain.
GET A MEDIC.
“SON OF A BITCH,” I yelled. I abandoned my post and limped to the bathroom. After an emergency trip to the drug store, it was bullet proof granny panty and sweats time for me. I spent the day in bed, with a box of Fudgee-o’s, watching romantic comedies, paralyzed by my womb on remix.
Despite looking like I was four months pregnant with Satan’s spawn, Matt high fived me when he found me laying in bed in the fetal position.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked sweetly. “Do you feel like crying? Because you can cry if you want to.”
“Maybe later,” I said.
*Note, I’m that girl that bawls during woman week.
Cute commercial? Crying.
See an old person shopping alone at the grocery store? Crying in public.
See a squirrel run across the street? Crying because it might have a squirrel family and he might get hit by a car.
Basically right now the goal for Day 3 is to make it through work without killing someone, crying and unbuttoning my pants because my pooch needs to be free.
To anyone who wants to tell me to exercise, or drink a lot of water to reduce the bloating: Get the hell away from me before I kick you in the box.
KNOW MY PAIN.
I’m hormonal, I’m emotional and I need sweatpants.
Synch up with my cycle if you want to live.