For a while there, Luke was surreptitiously tracking my cycle. Not because we were trying to make children—this was long before that circus started—but because he was trying to find a way to survive life with a woman.
He explained it to me carefully the other night, this system of self-preservation. Every now and then, he said calmly, my… behaviour… would change. Things I would have found funny two days prior would inexplicably become the spark in a secret stash of gun powder. All of a sudden he would come under fire for perceived assumptions about my sub-standard intelligence or for committing the deadliest of sins, using the word, “irrational.”
We got together when we were very young, so I have to applaud his decision to find workarounds rather than assuming his cute university girlfriend was now faulty and in need of replacement. It probably helps that he was the lone boy stuck growing up between two sisters, experiential learning at its best.
He claims to not track these sorts of things anymore, relying instead on my own self-awareness to either warn him of impending insanity or apologize in its aftermath. We are both scared of menopause.
The hormonal distress centre has been sending up more flares than usual over the past few days. I’m going to blame several things that are outside of my realm of control, beyond the obvious: a full moon, back-to-school-itus, a lack of sunlight and the fact that it’s -30˚C outside. Even the dog is in hibernation mode.
I’ve been overly sensitive, making claims that there seems to be a distinct lack of faith in my mental capacities amongst the other members of the household. Both children offer constant reminders on myriad topics: that the stove is still on (while I’m using it) or that you still need a turn signal in a dedicated left-hand turn lane or that the gas gauge is getting really close to the E.
“And, ahem, I asked for… MILK. And for you to play my favourite song. And I told you I don’t like marble cheese on a sandwich, I only like it in quesadillas.”
Bedtime finally happens and, since I didn’t fall asleep mid-songs, all past failures are briefly forgotten.
It was at this point, this evening, that I asked Luke to read two pages of drivel I spawned this afternoon, knowing full-well it made little to no sense. The fact that I asked him to read it at all should have been a warning to both of us. I knew it was a directionless disaster, but I was secretly hoping it would make sense to someone else.
“I think, if you’re going to publish that,” he said, “you’ll need to rewrite it.”
“Well then,” I harrumphed. “I guess I have WORK to do.”
He started to tell me that parts of it were good and it wasn’t a total write-off (pardon the pun) and that I just had a few mixed metaphors and a complete lack of direction but otherwise it was totally salvageable!
Poor guy didn’t stand a chance. I have never been good at receiving constructive criticism. Is anyone? I’m even worse at it when estrogen or progesterone or whichever one is responsible for this joyride starts messing with my self-esteem. Not only can I not write something thought-provoking about recent world events, but I’m also incapable of taking a decent photo every day, I can’t get to sleep on time and I’m eating like food it’s endangered. Oh, and for some reason, I decided today was a good day to try cutting my own bangs.
He stood there in the kitchen, looked me straight in the eyes and offered the only thing he had left in his toolbox.
“Do you need a hug?”
Yes. Of course. I accepted, feeling sheepish, and mourned the life of ease he could have had with someone else.