Hubby mentioned the other night that he’d told the guys at work he wanted to work on a male-only project. “A war movie, or a war series,” he said.
I feel for my husband, I really do. The only other male in our house is our (neutered) cat, so there’s not a whole lot of testosterone flowing. What Hubby really needs is a man-cave, a place where he can do whatever guys do to feel manly – blow things up on PlayStation, watch action movies, whatever.
Like all men, everywhere, throughout time, Hubby does not understand women. I told him, as gently as I could, that for at least two weeks of every month, a woman has absolutely no control over her emotions. “Hormones,” I said, “are horrible things.” Hubby didn’t think that was a real excuse, which led to the following conversation:
Me: Just imagine, every month, the inside of one of your organs peeling away from itself. Then your body needs to get rid of what has just been peeled away. That’s what happens to my uterus.
Hubby: I don’t have a uterus.
He didn’t understand. “Your uterus isn’t, uh, peeling away from itself right now, is it?” he asked, perhaps anticipating a hormonal-induced meltdown ahead. I shook my head, but made a mental note to mark my cycle on the wall calendar so Hubby knows when to stock up on Myprodol and chocolate – and when to keep a low profile.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that one day, when the girls reach puberty, there is a very strong chance our cycles will be in sync – which means three times the drama. Perhaps I’ll break it to him slowly, with gentle hints over the years to prepare him. Because if there’s one thing worse than a pre-menstrual woman, it’s a pre-menstrual teenager.
Fun times ahead, that’s for sure.