"From the moment I was six I felt sexy. And let me tell you it was hell, sheer hell, waiting to do something about it."
- Bette Davis
“It’s not about the blue dress!” I belted for about the seventh time. (Belting is the best tone for fury I find, for unlike screaming, belting is just contained enough for it to be dangerously explosive). I was beginning to sound like one of those voice-coaching exercises in emphasis they make you do in acting school. “It’s not about the blue dress!” “It’s not about the blue dress.” “It’s not about the blue dress.” “It’s not about the blue dress.” “It’s not about the blue dress!” “It’s not about the blue dress!” And when all those failed, I even tried throwing in some extra syllables. “It’s not about the BA-LOO-OUE DA-RESS!” I’m certain that every person who lives on the street where I gave this performance yesterday, and had their windows open (which they surely did, as it was swelteringly hot—even for a short blue dress!) has these words ringing in their mind today…like an annoyingly overplayed radio jingle that simply refuses to go away. But as I stood in the middle of the street yesterday, performing my operatic rendition of the Blue Dress, flapping my hands about in hysteria, stomping my delicate ballerina flats in a manner far from delicate or balletic, and all this to the dramatic percussion rhythm provided by my swishing and clanging gold chain belt (which, yes, hung from my blue dress!)—the fact that I was perhaps disturbing the neighbors, or even that I was causing a scene, did not seem in the slightest bit unusual, inappropriate, or dramatic to me. I was PMSing. And PMS is the abbreviated version of the lengthy medical term which in laymen’s terms, or for our purposes here, can be simply reduced to DRAMA.
***
The reason “It’s not about the blue dress,” or “it’s not about the groceries,” or it’s not about any of the other little things people may fight about…is because during PMS, nothing can only ever be about something. For that something becomes inextricably woven to countless other somethings, moments, places, people, feelings, thoughts, perceptions. Like a snowball rolling down a hill that turns into an avalanche…the little insignificant thing we are fighting over, be it a dress, a word or a bottle of water…becomes a symbol, cause and effect of something so much greater. Of me, of you, of us in general, of my childhood, my sex life, my career, of our relationship, of all relationships, of the history of the world, the meaning of life, of all joy or destruction, all wars, and if you carry through with this train of thought, you will invariably come to the conclusion that this ba-loo-oue da-ress is, in fact, the symbol of the universe. So, in actual fact, me picking a little fight with you over it is a thoughtful consideration on my part, not an overreaction. Things. Could. Be. Worse.
***
Yesterday, I told my mother I was writing a blog about PMS and asked her if she had any thoughts or sentiments on the topic. And she said, “all I can remember is that I always used to get a pimple right in the middle of my nose!” Think about that for a moment. Over thirty years of periods, and pads, and PMSing, and lord only knows what quantity of blood, bloating and blue dresses, and all she can remember is that tiny little spot. That pimple clearly wasn’t only right in the middle of her nose. It was in the middle of everything. It was the axis upon which the world would turn, or cease to turn, once a month for over thirty years. It erected itself as a proud, beaming statue between herself and her mirror, (countless mirrors which she surely looked in all day long), herself and anyone she came into contact with, herself and life, itself. That pimple, poor thing, was probably blamed for just about anything, from a lost earring to a lost fiancée, a dropped bag of groceries to a broken crystal vase. Oh, that’s the other thing about PMS—it can make you very clumsy. Apparently, Italians, Italian men to be precise, believe that if a woman is clumsy, or drops something in front of a man, she is hiding something from him. (Arguably, an Italian man, vase dropped or not, will always think his woman is hiding something from him, and probably only because he is hiding something from her, but let’s not get into that right now). But when it comes to PMS, she is hiding something. Besides the pimple she tries desperately to conceal, there are dozens of other physiological and psychological things she is hiding, because if she didn’t, the universe, remember, the entire universe, would spontaneously combust.
***
Any number of physiological changes can occur in a woman during PMS. Her breasts might get firmer, larger and more painful. (But more sensitive too, which can sometimes be a good thing). Her skin can break out. (Bad thing). Her stomach, back, head, earlobe or just about any other part of her body can ache, and more often than not, it is some combination of these. Her hair can curl, or straighten, or behave in any other unusual way that makes it completely unmanageable and definitely makes for not one but several, bad hair days. She can become more sensitive to smells and certain foods, repulsed by some and addicted to others. (Yoghurt and gherkins are big ones, and no, not together). Her stomach can bloat—in fact her entire body can bloat from water retention, making her a whole dress size larger. Yep, goodbye skinny jeans. Because of this, or not because of this, she can become lethargic and fatigued, desperate for any excuse to not get out of bed, and even one single drop of rain will sometimes do. And, as if that’s not enough, she can become incredibly, insanely, and unstoppably, aroused. (Good though it may seem, this can also be a bad thing). In fact, on closer look at these symptoms, one might say that PMS is a mini, or 7-day pregnancy. Except without the promise of a little gift to come, without all the showers and shopping, without the belly that might get someone to give up their seat on the bus. There’s an idea. Those signs that read “Seating reserved for the elderly, disabled, or less able to stand,” should include “women suffering from the tragedies of PMS.”
***
But these physiological changes, or symptoms, if you will, are still nothing in comparison to the psychological and emotional ones, those indescribable and undiagnosable terrors. There are several pills or accessories that can remedy the break-outs, the pain, or the water retention, and indeed we make good use of them and manage, for the most part to keep on keeping. But unfortunately, there is no hat to cover the unmanageable, knotty mop of thoughts that accumulate, no elastic “dress” for the heart that might give room to the bloating of emotion and sentiment, no pill to pop to alleviate the feeling that the apocalypse has indeed, finally, arrived. Instead, it all stays contained and restrained in a mind, heart and body that suddenly seem way to small to carry it all. And at the faintest indication of a possible EXIT, release, or outlet, it explodes. “It’s not about the blue dress!” Often times, it is more like a series of minor explosions.
***
A man I was dating once said to me, “but I don’t understand, you are so intelligent! Can’t you think or rationalize your way out of this one?” Think my body out of PMS and into submission? Believe me, I have tried. Perhaps I am not that intelligent after all. The best I can do is partly acknowledge that I’m PMSing…and that all the little things that are making my blood boil (no pun intended) probably wouldn’t in normal circumstances, and probably won’t next week, but unfortunately that’s as far as it goes. This acknowledgement doesn’t change much. I might have the “intelligence” to add “I’m sorry, I’m PMSing,” as an encore to my tantrums, but the tantrums still happen. The show, must always, go on.
***
As I was stormed off finally, if for no other reason than because I ran out of emphatic ways to say that phrase, and sat down in the park to ponder these cycles of joy and disaster…these overtures and encores…and the cathartic embers slowly turned to ashes…I looked down at my blue dress and said, “I’m disappointed in you, you know, I expected more.” All the excitement I had felt when I bought it, when I put it on that day, all the promise it held for showers of compliments and a fabulous night out, were gone. If I could, I probably would have gone to return it right away. “Hello, I’d like to return this dress please, it didn’t quite live up to my expectations.” And then, I began thinking about disappointment and expectations. Isn’t that what periods are? Simply the tears of disappointed ovaries and eggs unfertilized? I know they don’t wear any, but try to put yourself in an ovary’s shoes for a moment. Ovaries are the icons, the totems, the presidents of expectation. Their entire raison d’être and definitive verb, is to expect. From the very moment they come into being this is their calling. For the first eleven years or so, they wait patiently to be able to exercise it. And then they begin to pursue it with vigour, working and performing tirelessly every month in the hope of being put to use, with the greatest expectations to create. Of course, in most cases, they are forced to wait another 5, 6, 10 years, (no judgment!) before this opportunity for procreation (read: sex) even presents itself. And then, in many cases, even when all the stars and sperms are aligned, we often fail to fulfill their expectations. (In fact we habitually choose to deliberately sabotage them). So think that every single month we don’t get pregnant, whether it be ten, fifteen or twenty years since we became ready to, think, just think how our ovaries feel. Months and years go by and layers of expectation and disappointment heap up. We are often times ready to quit a job, or get a divorce, or even end our own lives when things don’t live up to our expectations, when our toils and efforts pass unnoticed, when our homes or investments collapse. And yet, our ovaries continue to live, to work, to expect and invest, once a month, like the most loyal of soldiers, while we, pardon my French, continue to fuck them over. So you know what? Allow them their little tantrum once in a while. They more than deserve it. And you know what else? Give them a fucking round of applause. (Sorry, I'm PMSing).
