Every month in a not-pregnant woman’s life, her guts (violently) reaffirm that there’s still no reproduction going on. For the purposes of blogging, we shall refer to this as “lady time.”
Lady time often closely follows some sort of homicidal hormone imbalance and possibly blinding abdominal pain. Or back pain. Or crazy, swollen porno boobies. Or tendon and ligament oddness.
Yes, tendons and ligaments. Because the shift in hormones actually softens these little connectors so bones can spread and accommodate growing infants.
So imagine for a moment that you usually get such rubbery joints before and during lady time that you fear walking.
And now add the fact that one of your ligaments (a big one) is now artificially constructed from one of your tendons.
HOLY MACARONI!
Forget the guts making their usual, loud announcement. I know lady time is coming because my freaking knee screams like a spoiled toddler being denied a second popsicle. It shrieks into a dozen bullhorns arranged microphone to speaker to microphone to speaker. And then that’s aimed at another microphone wired to 30 amplifiers.
It’s blasted from an iPod through the speakers of the third-year-in-a-row winner of the Loudest Car Stereo in the U.S.
It groans so loud, people walking outside my current office turn to their companions and say, “Did you hear that?”
“Sounds like it’s lady time for someone.”
Its shrieks attract ally cats.
It summons demons from Hell.
And it frickin-frackin hurts.
And the real shit thing? Going through my calendars from the past (yes, I keep a calendar of lady activity – all ladies should), lady time might be the reason my ACL snapped in the first place.
Consider me envious of the penis.
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