It's not me - It's PMT

For some things there are simply no excuses. Getting too pissed on a work night and subjecting your poor colleagues to inhaling second-hand ethanol fumes whilst complaining about the phones ringing probably won't go down too well with the boss.

For some things there are simply no excuses. Getting too pissed on a work night and subjecting your poor colleagues to inhaling second-hand ethanol fumes whilst complaining about the phones ringing probably won't go down too well with the boss. Shimmying out of the window in nothing but a towel after an awful one-night stand and then moaning about a pregnancy scare - again, you probably won't get a great deal of sympathy. Failing that exam after kicking your revision books under your bed for a fortnight? This probably won't result in a congratulatory pat on the back either.

So, what about complaining about PMT and acting scarily out of character for a solid 24 hours? As it is both biologically and genetically related - surely this means we are off the hook?

Last weekend, I confided in my housemate and best friend Emma that I was feeling a little blue. For absolutely no reason at all, I was sobbing, slumping and sighing in her face annoyingly loudly. It was sunny outside, I had just got paid, we'd just made a delicious lunch, and our flat smelt gloriously of Dettol - yet I was acting like Eeyore wagging my grey little tail and singing the chorus of Les Miserables. I was sorrowful. Forlorn. So full of woe.

Later that evening, two of our friends came round for dinner. My friend Hetty started cooking, the radio was blaring and my spirits began to perk up whilst we danced around the kitchen in our slippers. Like those Sleepover Club books I used to read as a child I felt like we were just some girls, hanging out, cackling at our own jokes. I momentarily popped downstairs to my bedroom, started brushing my hair, when I heard some knives and forks clanking.

My ears pricked up. Oh my god, I thought. They have started having dinner without me! They don't want me here. And with that, I pulled on my coat, packed up my satchel and dramatically charged up the stairs. I reached the top of the stairs as if I just entered centre stage in an am-dram opening night performance and delivered my monologue, whilst fighting back real-life tears.

After saying my piece to a shocked audience, I marched off and out of the door; just like that part in a cheesy rom-com when the girl tells a boy called Pierre she 'can't do this anymore'. I had just made a complete song and dance of my departure and very shortly after began to realise it was actually pretty cold outside and that I was on my own. But still, off I stomped, because, quite frankly, they had hurt my poor fragile feelings.

Shortly after my embarrassing exit, I received text messages from the girls that read along the lines of "babe...WTF" with some confused question marks. I couldn't reply, mainly because by the time I had got on the train, I had completely forgotten why I was angry. I desperately racked my brains to try and justify my ridiculous actions, but I had nothing. I had to think of something. I ended up telling them that I was very upset as they were having a nice time without me and that I had felt like Bertha Mason. Their response to this, of course, was shrieks of laughter. I was actually crazed. They had done nothing wrong, but I was becoming angrier by the minute, resembling a comedy cartoon with steam was coming out of its ears. I was livid.

Much later on, it then transpired that it was in fact 'that time of the month.' At once I excitedly grabbed my phone to tell my friends the good news. It all made sense! Immediately, they were understanding of the whole episode (they had been the whole time). This news was like a secret Morse code, an unwritten rule, a sly understanding 'wink'; no one need say anything more. We all knew. In a split second, with no further ado, I knew that every single action taken during that last hour was going to be completely forgotten. Even if I had ran around wielding a frying pan, manically cut up a friend's designer dress in a ball of rage, or wolfed down fifty king-size chocolate bars and then bawled my eyes out, no-one would have battered an eyelid if the reason was The Blob. This reminds me of when Emma had herself been subjected to the PMT curse, when she once sat in the middle of her bedroom floor, angry tears streaming down her face, head in her lap, all because she couldn't find a lost ball of Blu-tac. But with an understanding hand placed on her shuddering shoulder, it was all going to be OK. It was just the monthly visitor.

This brings me to the fundamental question - is PMT a legitimate excuse for being a complete and utter maniac? Do hormones wreak more havoc than we give them credit for? Is that one tragic day of the month solely responsible all the pain, drama and possible break-ups of spouses and/or friends? I think, (and obviously within reason, somethings are never OK), that PMT is just like a loopy, temporary drug.

My only advice to girls when this is happening is: please, just stay indoors. Preferably with your friends. This way, whatever happens in your house, stays in your house. Unfortunately, (unbeknown to me), during this time, you are in fact a danger to the general public and must at all costs, be kept safely inside.

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