Right now I’m recalling my mother fluttering around the house singing, “I enjoy being a girl.” She’s really into show tunes, my mom. Anyway that’s not the point, the point is that my boobs hurt.. a lot!  And it seems like every time I do the math my PMS is getting longer and longer. But seriously, they are D+ right now, as heavy as cantaloups, and my dog just loves to rest her head on them. Considering she only weighs 30 pounds less than me, when she stretches out on the couch next to me and puts her giant paw across my stomach and rests her head on my boob, it should be adorable, but really it just hurts. So, no, I don’t enjoy being a girl today.

She doesn’t get it. She was fixed when she was a puppy so she doesn’t have to deal with these things. Did I mention she has a giant head? We call her Baby Big Head. I wonder if my dogs secretly call me Mommy Big Boobs.

Usually I’m quite enamored with them, being my age and still able to pass the pencil test (for those who don’t know what it is, it’s when you raise your arm and put a pencil under your boob. Then you put your arm down. If the pencil falls to the ground, you pass, if it stays stuck under the boob, well… it’s just a stupid test). It helps that I haven’t had kids, so I suppose all you moms out there are far more normal being enamored by your kids rather than your boobs.

I know the human body is a miracle and everything, but what is this whole order of things: 1 week we have PMS, where our boobs are sore for no apparent reason, I mean seriously, what does that have to do with creating a life? We also get to enjoy and share our nasty mood swings, which despite knowing in the moment, as we scream at someone we love, that it is in fact “PMS talking” yet we can’t stop ourselves, nor will we ever apologize for it. Because lord knows, once you use the “I’m sorry Honey, it was PMS,” for the rest of your relationship, every time you get upset about something, you get , “Do you have PMS right now?” which even if you don’t makes you want to kill the same way you do when you do have PMS.

Then the next week we have the joy of enduring terrible cramps and blood streaming from our body. We have to make sure we always have the right products in us and with us at all times, whether they be Super Plus or with Wings. It makes wardrobe very challenging, and the bloating doesn’t help. And on top of that, for those of us who don’t like things ‘messy and yucky,’ sex is out unless it’s in the shower.

Don’t be fooled into thinking the week after that is time off. Oh no, a few days later, we get the wonderful clear, sticky, gook that apparently is waiting for sperm so it can hold it until you ovulate, which pretty much guarantees you a girl because girl sperm can outlive boy sperm. So, unless you have really good birth control that slimy week is a pain in the ass.

Finally you have the week where you’re horny as hell! But you know what that means, you’re in heat, which again means, if you don’t have really great birth control, you’re having a boy, because those boy sperm have speed and they are on a mission!

I’m sorry I’m being so morose, it’s just that I have PMS, and as girls I know you won’t hold it against me (also I’m trying to scare off any guys who are reading this blog… they hate this “Flo” talk). You can commiserate over the fact that I can no longer be on the pill, because I’ve tried every one and they turn me into Dr Jeckyll and Mister Hyde. Just ask my sweet ex-boyfriend who is now a dear friend who on one occasion, cooked me breakfast in bed and garnished the plate with banana slices. This caused me to burst into a crying fit because I didn’t like bananas… that should have been his hint that I was bananas, but he stuck with me. But it was after he took me out for hotdogs and Nathans was closed that I had to settle for the deli and matzo ball soup, that I knew it was time to get off the pill forever. I pouted as I gave my order, and when the bowl arrived at my table with nothing but a ball and broth, I felt infuriated, but that feeling instantly changed as I sipped my soup, which was so hot I burned my lip and started crying. The whole restaurant was watching me and the guy came out from behind the deli counter to make sure I was okay. The reason my sweet ex boyfriend is still my friend is because he’s a writer and I give him so much material.

The bottom line is, my boobs hurt which reminds me that I have a cycle, which reminds me that I’m not on the pill, which reminds me that I could get pregnant, which reminds me to abstain from sex… which sucks!

The funny thing is, in a few days, when PMS is over, I’m going to reread this, and think, “What the heck was I thinking writing that?!” Stupid sore boobs made me do it that’s what I’ll say!

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