Riding the wave
My husband is a saint.
Clayton should be sitting on people’s dashboards or dangling from prayer beads because that man is a SAINT for putting up with me.
Let’s just say, I was totally on one yesterday. Not to be too revealing, but I’m totally PMSing and I don’t know how it is for the rest of you gals out there, but the first day of my “special lady time” is the emotional equivalent of sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on a hot August afternoon while simultaneously watching The Notebook, giving myself a bikini wax and finding out my grandmother died.
It’s not pretty.
And I did just fine while I was at work. I slipped on my earbuds, cranked up some 90s music, and totally zoned out while I got lost in the wonderful world of social media outreach, managing to make it through the entire workday without biting anyone’s head off or bursting into tears.
But when I finally left the office for the day, I got caught in a torrential downpour with no umbrella and by the time I made it to my car (that seemed to be parked about 50 miles away from the building), I was soaked down to my underwear. That’s when I discovered that not only did I leave my windows rolled down, I reopened the scab on my knee during my frantic sprint in the rain.
After losing tire traction in a puddle and almost hitting the car in front of me, I came home, peeled off my wet clothes and went from semi-tolerable to completely whiny. At one point, I was pacing the stairs and trying to convince Clayton to bring me dinner in bed. “But I’m so craaaaaaaaaaaaaaampy,” I whimpered, grabbing my ovary region for dramatic effect. “You don’t know what it’s like! I’m doing this all for you! I go through this every month so that one day I can get big and fat and get stretch marks all over my body and bare you a child! And you don’t have to do ANYTHING. You don’t appreciate me! Will you at least make me a snack? Do we have any chocolate? Why don’t we have any chocolate in this stupid house?!”
After about 30 more seconds of bitching at a high-pitched decibel that I’m pretty sure only Joey could hear, Clayton was desperate to pacify me. He set me up in the guest room with a fluffy blanket, a pillow, and a Diet Coke. He positioned the TV at an angle I could see, handed me the remote, and then disappeared downstairs to make me dinner (emphasis on the “disappeared” part. But can you really blame him?)
When Clayton felt confident that his homemade fried chicken had pleased me (and my goodness! It DID.), he made like the wind and blew out of there to do a P90X workout at his parents’ house and not, you know, smother me with a pillow.
Several hours later, Clay came back home (he actually came back!) to find me curled up on the couch in a pathetic heap, sobbing about how sad the newest episode of Glee was and how all of those dorky kids were just so gosh darn special. He shut me up by revealing 2 candy bars that he had been hiding behind his back and made me instantly forget about Rachel Berry’s stupid problems.
“I didn’t know if you wanted something like a Baby Ruth or something more like a Snickers, so I bought you both.”
When I had successfully appeased my uterus with sugar and chocolate, I was completely wiped out from my busy day of being a woman and ready to go to sleep. Like usual, Clay tucked me into bed with my Kindle, but before he let himself out the room I stopped him with the following question:
“Tell me something you like about me.”
Bless his heart, I saw his shoulders slump in the light coming through the doorway, but he came back into the room anyway.
“You’re very pretty,” Clayton replied with a sigh.
“What do you find pretty about me … specifically?” I pulled the covers up around my face and batted my eyelashes.
“Um, you have nice cheekbones,” he said. He sounded tired.
“Nice cheekbones!? Gosh, Clayton, could you be any more insensitive? I’m so bloated and huge, I don’t even have distinguishable cheekbones right now! Thanks a lot for nothing!” I rolled over and faced the wall, pouting.
Confused, Clayton took that as his cue to leave, but just as he was about to close the door, I suddenly felt remorseful for my schizophrenic behavior. Sweetly, I called after him, “But thank you for making me dinner tonight. Thank you for doing the dishes. And thank you for bringing me chocolate.”
Clay paused and contemplated everything he did for me that night. “Yeah Courtney, and just what did you manage to do all day?”
He smartly shut the door and ran down the hallway before I even had a chance to respond …