Week 4: When The Rational Woman Dies

Let us be honest for once. Let us talk about what every guy already secretly knows, and what every girl uses all her energy trying to deny. Somewhere out there is a girl rule, which could either be unspoken or simply written on our DNA, that I am about to break by broaching this subject. Any girl who tells you that I am wrong, or exaggerating, or that it is just me, or just plain lying, you must understand that she is just keeping up the code.

Three weeks out of the month, I am a thoughtful, kind, honest, loving, caring, and rational human being. I go out of my way to do things for people, I find joy in caring for others, and try to always see the best in a situation. Then, during week four, something happens to me that I can only compare to what happens to Bruce Banner when someone runs over his foot. I become a complete and total beast. Unlike the Hulk though, my symptoms come on slowly and in fairly predictable pattern.

The first stage of week four's progression starts when I notice that I am impatient with things. Any other time, the two minutes it takes to warm up rice is just a good time to do a quick wipe down of the counters, traffic is good quality radio time, and the time it takes for the guy to make my sandwich at Port 'O Subs is just a window where I can chat him up about how his day has been. Not during the dreaded week four. When week four hits, I stand and glare at the microwave that it is purposefully trying to piss me off, just willing it to go faster, the lady driving 35 in a 45 mph should be summarily shot, and I start wondering how this guy at Port 'O Subs ever made it out of high school. The irritation phase, while annoying, is controllable with a little awareness. Knowing myself and my normal behavior, I try to push down my annoyance and fake how the normal, rational me would respond. I take a moment to rationally think about it, and it really helps to keep things in perspective. I try to realize that rice will always take 2 minutes no matter how long I wish it would take, there will always be slow drivers and there is nothing I can do about that, and I mean the guy works at Port 'O Subs, give him a break.

As time passes the impatient phase slowly morphs into the next stage, which is a bit more difficult to hide and even harder to control. This stage is where everything gets on my nerves. This phase, if not actively controlled, can make me appear like a whiner. Why is it so windy here? Why is there nobody at this stupid activity? Why did this stupid activity not start when it said it would? Why did I waste good make-up on this? I seriously cannot believe she is wearing that, what was she thinking? Why are all these girls hanging out in the bathroom, don't they know this is where you go to pee? Why would they ever play this horrible song, not a dance song people. Ugh, why am I still here? Knowing nobody likes a whiner, especially boys. So, I think all these horrible thoughts, but try my hardest to keep them to myself. This phase, and then next can be counterbalance somewhat by kindness from others. A friend calling to see if you are going to be at the activity, or someone calling you smart, or someone who you really hope to become friends with making a special point to talk just to you can quash all that negativity down like garbage in the bin. Making it so that I am still annoyed, but now there is space for other stuff too.

The third phase usually creeps up on me, but once it is there, there is no mistaking it. This is the phase that boys might start catching on that week four has arrived even though you have already been there for a couple of days. It is the self loathing / crying / please love me phase. I personally have a low tolerance for clingy, whiny, no self-esteem girls. I hate that we are even grouped in the same category together. There should be boys, girls, and then them. But somehow, every month, I am suddenly one of those girls. This is the phase where the rational woman begins to die. This day, for me, was yesterday. I felt fat (from the bloating) and ugly (from the crazy hormone), which I know both are not true but every time I looked in the mirror, there the feeling is again. Ugh, I hate my hair, this shirt makes me look like I have a pooch, I look like am an old lady with these bags under my eyes, I wish I had a butt, I bet guys would talk to me more if I had blue eyes. You get the point. After this feeling comes, I start to wonder why nobody loves me, why nobody cares, which is also completely not true. Once I feel fat, ugly, unloved and completely alone, I become ultra moody, sulky, and quiet. Last night, Ms. Justin caught on to this while we were on the dance floor. After telling her how nobody will ever marry me, how I feel fat and gross, and everybody hates me ... Geez, listen to me, I should dye my hair black and watch Twilight movies all day. Seriously, I was being ridiculous ... She made me feel better by telling me how pretty and special I was, and the rest of the night went by without anyone looking at me like I was acting like the teenage basket case.

The last phase is the worst and most recognizable. It is the total beast phase. This phase is the reason that women should still be sequestered to menstruation tents. When the beast phase hits, it not only when the rational woman is completely and totally dead, but it is also when we stomp and mutilate her body. It is full Hulk mode, minus the ripping of the shirt. It is when any boy knows you when you are normal begins to think wonder who you are and what have you done with that nice girl he knew a week ago. It is the phase that any boyfriend you have ever had, can identify and track by every major fight you have ever had. You are not yourself, and cannot be held responsible for your actions. This is what phase Lizzie Borden, Tammy Fae Baker, and John Wayne Bobbit's wife were in when they just plain went crazy. The worst part of the beast phase, for me, is I can feel myself being crazy, and yet have no control over it. I can feel the hate pulsing through my body and know I am toxic to any situation. It is like I am standing beside myself and watch watch this crazy woman who looks like me spread the poison around, yell at perfect strangers, rip good friends new ones, ensure good friends will not be good friends when I am again normal, slowly poison boyfriend/girlfriend relationships, cry in frustration that I cannot open a jar with wet hands, or plan total annihilation of the human race. When this phase hits I try to limit contact with the outside world or to people I don't care if I ever talk to after that day. It usually lasts anywhere from 10-36 hours, until my cycle finally starts and I can feel the hate flow out of me.

As much as any girl will deny it, this is all due to a hormonal flux. I worked women's health for the last two years, and in my field of work, I came upon some startling research. As you can clearly see from the graph above, the total beast phase occurs when a girl's "crazy hormone" is at it's highest. I mean, that is just science. Who could argue with me? I have a graph and everything.

Despite the admission that once a month we make boy's lives something akin to the seventh circle of hell, there are some girls that will blame it every character flaw and bad mood they have on the hormones. They will pick fights, be bitchy, be total messes, cry, complain, have erratic mood swings and then when confronted about being being a horrible person will blame it on week four. I beg of these girls, don't blame your special brand of crazy on week four. It already has a bad enough rap as it is, without you making it like hormones make girls crazy all of the time. Conversely, there is the other segment of the girl population that will never admit that they even have a week four, but doesn't seem like a huge coincidence that you and your boyfriend only fight one week out of the month?

Before the girl police come and cart me away for letting out classified information, I wanted to end by saying girls, be aware of what week it is and try your hardest, for everyone's sake, to keep your path of destruction to a one mile radius. And to the boys out there, all I really have to say is, I know it is hard to imagine the what it is like, but please make sure this time next month when I turn in to a crying, blubbering mess that you realize the real me will be back the week after that.