Within the four corners of this world exists other woman, like myself, who go through the depths of hell once a month. We experience the clench of Satan's fists wrapping and twisting our ovaries in evil delight. We curl up in balls of pain pleading the Calvary of Christ to come take us to heaven. We become hostage, crippled, possessed in it's torture; unable to move, to search for the heating pad, to retrieve a cool wash cloth to soothe our hot flashes, to fill the tub with warm water, to push ourselves off the bathroom tiled floor and back onto the soft carpet in the hallway after throwing up, to ring our family doctor and threaten him into calling in a prescription order of vicadin or codeine for us, to pretend not to be irritable and on the verge of crying. We are gluttons of Aleve. We are advocates of the legalization of marijuana for medicinal purposes. We are brave and courageous and should be pitied and comforted.
Usually I brave two days at the most; the first day being a Warning Sign of the Cramps To Come and the second day delivering me The Hell, but today, the day after Hell, I am experiencing a third day, which feels similar to the first day, but since it's not the first day and therefore can not coin it to be a Warning Sign, I will dub it: the Day of Aftermath.
And unlike other girlfriends I know, who share my story, I differ in that mine come and go, which is a blessing in a curse but a curse in a blessing in a curse because it means unless I am experiencing it right then and their I feel no justification in allowing myself to be tucked into bed for the day but instead that I must 'Carpe Diem'; leaving my offensive line in a valley surrounded by the unknown and the lingering doom of an unexpected attack.
I have too many things to get done today and plans for a fun outing tonight but without any Aleve or those heating pads that stick to your panties in the reserves, I hesitate.