"it's not about the blue dress!" and other things PMS is and isn't about.

"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).

safarESEARCH; a master of research goes on safari.

Filling out my application for a Botswana visa, under “Reasons for Travel” I write “Tourism/Safari.” The visa officer reads through my application and says, “You are going on safari?” I nod. “So you like animals?” he then asks with all the gravity that would imply this is a prerequisite to get in the country. “Yes, love ‘em,” I exaggerate. (Who knows, maybe it is a prerequisite). “What do you do?” he asks me. To spare both him and me from this conversation, I tell him I’m a student, in London. “Ah, what do you study?” Uh-oh. “I’m doing a Master of Research in Humanities and Cultural Studies.” In the short silence that follows I wonder why I didn’t just say mathematics, while his face is overcome by various expressions all of which say “huh?” “Ahhhh,” he then proudly concludes, “now I see why you like animals.” What gave that away I wonder, “cultural,” or “humanities?”

***

College counselors are quite a daft bunch really. They’ll make you memorize words for the SAT, walk you through countless personality and career quizzes that are supposed to help you figure out (at the age of 18) what you want to do for the rest of your life, and then they’ll read through the “Picking a College” guide with you asking you whether you prefer east or west coast, snow or sunshine, jocks or hippies. All of this when they really should just give you one tip: pick a degree with a simple title. Or one that you won’t mind explaining for the rest of your life, to visa officers, at dinner parties, and chatty old ladies in the bank queue. Unlike the visa officer who concluded that my degree inspired or explained my love for animals, the chatty old lady might conclude you’d make a good wife. What about “humanities” or “cultural studies” suggests that I crochet doilies? (Coincidentally, or not, I do own a copy of Crocheting for Dummies. Don’t ask, I think I was trying to stop drinking at the time. Need I elaborate on how that went?)

***

When you tell people you have a degree in Humanities and Cultural studies, they will inevitably conclude one of three things. (Well three things besides that you like animals). One—that you’re really smart. Maybe my (fake) glasses already suggest this, but I think it’s the big words that give it away. Truth be told, I don’t really know what the “official” way to define what I studied is. I usually just give the usually vague string of answers, art, architecture, philosophy, literature, etc. But more importantly, I give myself a pat on the back when I manage to say the entire title of my degree without getting tongue-tied. Especially after my third glass of champagne. If you can do that, you’ve got to be smart. (Or, an experienced drunk? Let’s stick to the first option). Next, they may conclude that you’re incredibly “cultured,” as in, that you go to the opera “and all that stuff.” Which, coincidentally, I do, whenever I can, but this doesn’t have anything to do with my degree. Its not like they took us on fieldtrips to the theatre, much to my dismay. (In all fairness, this is what I thought I was signing up for—a Master’s degree in London’s West End.) And though I did get a few free cocktails at the TATE, that was more or less it. That and a professor or two hitting on me. Not sure where that falls, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t come under “culture.” And the third thing they might assume, is that you’re a people person. Fair enough, I did just say “humanities,” and that’s a closer guess than animals to be sure, but I wouldn’t call myself a people person. In fact anyone who chooses to devote a year of their life to research—to books and libraries—is probably not a people person. You can’t like people if they’ve managed to get the one copy of the library book you need before you. It just doesn’t work.

***

That said, I do have a general, vague, interest in people—from a distance that is. Whenever my father asks me why I need not one, but two degrees, to be a waitress, I tell him I’m making intellectual, and very important observations on people, and that I will one day get a very good book out of all of it. (Or at least a date!) Thanks to him, I don’t need the £6-an-hour (or whatever it is, I don’t even ask), that I’m earning—but I do love the idea of being paid to people watch. I love to wonder what is going on in people’s lives, I love to imagine what they were thinking that morning when they put those shoes on, I love to imagine whose bed they found those shoes under moments earlier...

***

And so, having been duly granted my visa for Botswana (whether on account of my love for animals or not), I headed off on safari and did what I do best—people watched. And never before has my “shoe question” been more relevant. Seriously, what are safari tourists thinking when they put those shoes on, and that outfit?! I don’t get the whole head-to-toe-khaki thing. Those animals have been standing still for decades watching safari vehicles come by. Its not like they’re going to run away at the sight of a white shirt. (Trust me, I do after all, have a Master's in a love for animals!). Besides, its not like you’re going to be chasing the animals for chrissakes! All you’re doing, rather decadently, is sipping on G&Ts and watching them go by. A ballgown and white gloves would work just fine too. (Ok, even I don’t go to this extreme, but I’m never above a little pearl necklace or Hermes scarf to top off my outfit). And, ps, if “camouflage” is what you’re going for—a two-foot zoom lens probably isn’t the way to go. If anything, that’s what would scare an elephant away—the poor thing never imagined something larger than its penis existed! Interestingly, just as the saying goes that there is more drama backstage than onstage, I’d venture to propose there are more wild instincts at play within the safari jeep than outside it. What else are all those men with their zoom lenses doing but competing for who has the biggest ‘one’?

***

Luckily, being a local, I manage to experience the “luxury”—if you can call it that—of safari, at a reasonable cost. But its incredible how much money foreigners spend on the whole “experience.” Think of it, the flights, (the vaccinations!), the accommodation, those cameras (read: egos), and (need I mention them again?) those outfits! Whoever came up with those pooey outfits is, pun intended, rolling in it. Not to mention that upon their arrival at the 5-star lodge, some sly guide has probably told them that tipping is the way to go in this country, so they go through dropping twenties at every stop thinking the job wouldn’t get done otherwise. Look, I am after all a waitress, so more than anyone, I’m all for tipping. But when you’re paying thousands of dollars a night for your accommodation, you really don’t need to tip housekeeping for bringing you fresh towels. Or your game drive guide. Yes, its nice to, and I sometimes do…but part of the reason you’re paying those astronomical prices is because they’re all inclusive—driver, towels, G&Ts and all.

***

Anyway, I don’t really care how much money people spend or how they choose to spend it, that’s their own business. Considering my love of Hermes and…well, let me not even get started on that list…I’m really not one to talk. What gets me is that they pay for allllll of this and more, when actually, all they really want to see is a lion. Forgive me for asking the obvious question, but couldn’t ya just go to the zoo? The minute you pile into a safari jeep with all the pairs of khaki-clad, zoom-toting, mountain-climbing-boot-wearing Germans, Americans and Spaniards you’re going to make boring small-talk with for the next two hours, someone is bound to turn to the driver and say, “Albert, vil ve see ze lions today?” Poor Albert has already been driving them around for two days, pulling every possible bit of mildly interesting animal trivia out of his ass to keep them engaged, explaining gestation periods and courting rituals of every bird, bee and buffalo they spot, and yet all they’re really after is a lion. One single lion would make the entire trip worthwhile. Can I make another obvious suggestion and recommend the musical The Lion King? He may not be real, but at least (for only $99.99!) you’re guaranteed to see him, centerstage. The only downside besides him not being real is that you wont be able to whip out your $5,000 Nikon and take a picture of him. But I’m sure they sell pictures at the giftshop on your way out.

***

The saddest thing about all of this is that for some reason, these unknowing tourists expect the amount of dollars they spend to directly correlate to the guarantee of what they will see. As if more zeroes means more lions. I’ll let you in on a little secret, it doesn’t matter how much you tip Albert, he just cannot make the lions appear! He’s a game drive guide for god’s sake, not a magician, or a circus tamer. Which is why everyone goes to Kruger National Park these days. Everyone. Even, VOGUE tells me, Ivanka Trump! Need I make the obvious guess here that Kruger is probably the most expensive safari you can go on? On my most recent trip, we sat around dinner one night, sharing game drive stories with the other guests at the lodge, as you do, and no one seemed to have any exciting stories to tell. Any exciting local stories that is. “Oh, our game drive was lovely today but we didn’t see any cats. Its ok, though, we saw them at Kruger.” Kruger Shmuger. Even though I’ve been on countless safaris in my life, I always see and learn something new and exciting (though perhaps its just the same information all the time, but my humanities mind cant retain any of it). For example, they say the wildebeast in Livingstone National Park are the only animals who have an actual predator in the park, despite the fact that there are no cats. Apparently there is some type of butterfly, or moth, (don’t quote me, I’m telling the story as I remember it!) that lays eggs in the animal’s nostrils, and when they become larvae, or caterpillars, whatever, they crawl up to the animal’s brain and begin to eat it! This causes the animal to…first, yes, go mad and run around in circles (much in the same way our indecisions might, for example?), and then die. Sad story, but fascinating no? Now, where can I get some of those little suckers to put up those annoying tourists’ noses!?

***

Sorry, that was mean. I don’t really want to kill them, I don’t even really hate them, I just find them annoying. They’re the outdoor equivalent of those suckers in the library who take your book! (You wanted proof that I’m not a people person?) But what that trip did get me thinking was, whatever happened to exploration? As I write this, I glance to the left of my screen and notice an internet window opened, at the top of which reads “Safari.” Surely there’s a reason why Apple chose not to name their internet browser Explorer like Windows, and went for Safari instead. It’s the same thing, right? Isn’t a safari supposed to be an exploration? A free, directionless, expectation-less roam through a national park where you never know what you’ll come across? Maybe a lion, maybe a creature going mad and running around in circles, maybe elephants fornicating. (Sorry to be so clinical, but I just love that word. Let me say it again, fornicating). Granted, this last one is definitely worth seeing. And probably one you won’t find in a zoo or Disney musical. Sorry. But sometimes you don’t see any of these things…sometimes its just a lilac breasted roller…or a carmine bee-eater…tiny little birds perched on the branch of a tree…that only inspire you to wish you had a bigger one—zoom, that is. But listen to the calls of those birds, or even just their names…isn’t there something blissfully poetic in this too? (There must be, for there is no other way I would have remembered their names. In case it isn’t obvious, I’m not a bird person either.)

***

Its funny how whenever I spew out the title of my degree people choose either to focus on the “humanities” or “cultural studies” part…nobody ever rests on research. But that is what I am, a Master of Research. And the most important lesson in research is that the book you are looking for is usually right next to the one you thought you were looking for. Which not only says that we never really know what we’re looking for, but that we shouldn’t ever aim to know what we’re looking for; you can’t explore with expectations. So it is, I imagine, with all explorations, safaris included. Don’t go on a game drive in search of a lion. Its about the ride…its about what happens along the way. Doesn’t abandoning ourselves to the wilderness of chance offer us the very chance to experience the wild?

***

I’ll pause there for a moment to raise the second most important lesson in research. When you can’t make it to the library, Google will do. One of my favourite things to do is apply this “abandonment of expectation” to Google. To not look for anything specific, but let Google, with its fabulous suggestions and guesses, lead me on. If you haven’t ever done this, you should. When you type the word “why” into google and wait a moment—it will give you some suggestions. I’m not entirely sure, but I imagine these are the most popularly searched questions. Today, the top hit is “why can’t I own a Canadian?” Erm, (wow!) clearly, because with your intellect you shouldn’t be granted possession of anything, let alone anyone. Other winners include your typical seven-year-old questions such as “why is the sky blue?” and “why do cats purr?” and my all-time favourite of today, “why is my poop green?” I don’t know dude, but if I were you I wouldn’t be sitting in front of my laptop, I’d be well on my way to the doctor. Under “how,” the top hits are “how to solve a rubix cube” and “how I met your mother”—which may be the title of a movie or something, but I do like the idea that someone is asking Google to answer for their MILFing! Under “when,” there is of course “when in Rome,” because I’m sure countless people hear that expression and have no idea what it means, and then coming in close behind that is, “when will I die?”

***

Wow. Maybe technology really has made amazing advances and will soon be able to answer all our questions. Or maybe our computers have just gotten into the wrong (or seven-year-old) hands. But if there is something funny or quaintly naïve in these questions, there is also something very wrong in them. Googling “how to solve a rubix cube” defeats the purpose moron! Have we become intolerant of uncertainty? Are we no different to those tourists who ask poor Albert if they will see lions today? Why are we so desperate to know what will be? Whatever happened to the days of que será será? Can’t we just sit down with the rubix cube of life and figure it out as we go along? And God forbid, take pleasure in the puzzle? It seems not. Then again, what do I know? All I have is a degree in a love for animals…