Allan Sanders<\/a> illustration sums up PMT perfectly<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n
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There. You see what I mean? If my mood and hormone levels were plotted on a graph they’d probably resemble The Rockies. I know I’m not alone. It’s not hard to spot those poor beggars in the grip of pre-menstrual tension. They’re the ones breathing fire for a start. Boyfriends up and down the land know to perform a timid Riverdance on eggshells once a month for fear of waking the sleeping dragons within their beloved.<\/p>\n
Even a usually placid woman, ordinarily the embodiment of good manners and self-control, can transform into Godzilla once Aunt Flo decides to pay her a visit. I’ve seen ordinarily meek-and-mild types foam at the mouth like a rabid badger over the tiniest thing once the old ovaries get all out of kilter.<\/p>\n
My sister and I often laugh about the time she literally ripped the clothes from her own back, Incredible Hulk-style, when throwing a tantrum as a twenty-something because she couldn’t find anything to wear. Literally tore the arms off her blouse in teeth-clenched fury whilst getting ready one stressful morning at our parents’ house. Now that was a sight to behold. I’m cracking up now at the memory, much to the bemusement of my fellow commuters as I travel, alone, to work. The murderous look on her face was so special that when we caught each other’s eye in the wardrobe mirror we just dissolved into hysterical laughter. Which at least diffused the ridiculous situation.<\/p>\n
You’d think, in this day and age, someone would have invented something that would have put paid to all this, this unpleasantness<\/i>; being held hostage each month, a hormone-loaded gun to our heads, as we play Russian roulette with our relationships, not to mention our sanity. If men had to suffer such indignity time and again, year in, year out, you can bet your Always Ultra they’d have come up with a fitting solution decades ago…<\/p>\n
Oh well girls, what can we do, eh? You just gotta bumble your way through those few tough days each month in a state of low-level irritation, doing your best not to draw attention to yourself, or commit any crimes punishable by the law until the irrational rage passes.<\/p>\n
If you sense a scene from The Exorcist is about to unfold as you become possessed by the evil endocrine spirits, it’s probably best to lock yourself in the bathroom and slowly count to ten until the venom-spitting, head-spinning frenzy leaves you.<\/p>\n
And then, in your fifties, the hormonal soup runs dry and the canteen shuts up shop. The crimson tsunami suddenly retreats….and you’re finally free. You listen for the voice of the evil Mr Hyde, but no – only Dr Jeckyll remains. A wonderful sense of peace washes over you. You hear the birds singing, smell the delicate flowers in bloom. The sun shines more brightly.<\/p>\n
Only then, you look around…and wonder where the hell everyone’s gone…<\/p>\n