Here's the thing about hormones, let me just lay out the shit for you, they fuck with you. They fuck with you like a kid that missed it's nap in a toy store. And I'm not talking Toys R Us, wide aisles, toy store, I'm talking KB, tight ass fucking aisles with shit all over the floor and shelves piled up to the ceiling, toy store. The kind where you have to walk around the entire fucking store through a maze of aisles to find the front door and there comes a point where you think you will never see daylight again and seriously consider suicide as an option.
You want to know a fun thing about getting older that no one ever told you? You start having PMS all fucking month long. Oh no, you don't get the joy of having it right before your period, or even during, now God loves you so much you get it AFTER, and then two weeks later when you're ovulating it sneaks up and smacks you in the face with a 2 x 4 littered with rusty nails poking out towards your face.
Don't worry about your face, you're getting old, it's not that nice looking any longer anyway. At least with a few scars you might be able to claim "Colorful character" as a descriptive adjective.*
Luckily my recent hormonal difficulties only add to my naturally charming disposition, and so even more people find themselves flocking towards me, to touch my sleeve, steal a lock of my hair, and just generally bask in my presence. Why, just last night the Irishman turned to me and said, "Dear Terra, you're such a lovely sight to my sore eyes, and joy to my lonely heart, let's fly off to Paris and get married by the glow of the Eiffel Tower's lights!"
What can I say, the Irishman is a bit of a pussy.
But frankly, I've been stressed as all hell for the past week or so. I've had work and side work, long days of unpaid overtime, fretful juggling of the bank account, accompanied with the realization that I hate my apartment, and my rent check's about to bounce.
Well.
Fuck me.
I've never bounced a rent check in my life.
I've made twenty dollars stretch two weeks, cover food and gas (this was back when gas didn't cost the same as your mortgage), and I've NEVER bounced a rent check. I'm 26, I'm fucking miserable, and unbeknownst to me I'm about to ovulate and am about to have the worst three days of mood swings that I have ever experienced and while I am having a complete and total breakdown I will look at my calendar, count how many days since my last period, and I will decide that this CAN'T be hormonal, there is no fucking way, I am, as always, completely rational.
There comes a point during these three days where I gather all my bills, add up my income, take a good long look at my budget, and instead of being able to tell myself, "OH THERE'S THE PROBLEM, MY THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH COKE HABIT" I instead realize that I have about negative 50 bucks for spending cash each month. Translation? I don't know how I do it.
I suppose that's when the thought occurred to me, "I really understand why some people just off themselves" I probably should've heard the
ALERT PMS PMS PMS
alarm going off in the building and surrounding villages, but I didn't. And because I was so miserable I lit into the Irishman like there was no tomorrow.
Really, he was asking for it. He was prancing around, "Oh look at me, I make a good income, I don't have to hunt and forage for my food, la dee fucking da." His happiness made me want to smash every childhood dream he ever had. How dare he be happy while I'm miserable? How. Fucking. Dare. He.
Of course, the option of him leaving and being happy somewhere else was NOT an option. Then I would've imagined that he was at a puppy store, laughing and rolling amongst puppies while he used 100 dollar bills to light up cigarettes and flirted with the counter girl.
The counter girl's a whore and I've never trusted her.
So yesterday, after I had done as much damage as possible, calmed down enough to realize, "ooh, my side's hurting, I must be ovulating..." thanked the God of hormones and apologized to the Irishman, I also had time for some serious self evaluation.
I'm in love with the Irishman, and not in the, "Oh I'm a kid and I'm in love with love" kind of way. But real love.
The kind of love you find after you've grown up enough to know yourself, your faults, what you don't want but need, what you do want but don't need, and what you hope for but most likely will never find.
I have spent the last six months finding every fault that I could possibly find in the Irishman and then exploding it into the largest catastrophe man has ever known, and still, there are just not enough of them for me to justify leaving.
He talks too loud but he also listens to my horrible fake accents and only occasionally has been caught wincing or rolling his eyes. He has a horrible temper over the stupidest things but when I yell he listens quietly and let's me burn myself out, which is exactly the best way to deal with me. He's super friendly to random strangers and goes out of his way to talk to them, which if I thought about it too much would annoy the fuck out of me, but he also drives to the store when I don't feel well, gets all of the medicine I need to my exact specifications, and then brings them to me in bed.
And the things I love about him that are of absolutely no benefit to me?
He's made up his own theme song, and it's actually good.
He's been sober for three years even though none of his friends thought he had a problem.
He says he's a bit stupid but knows so many random useless facts (well, history/political/sport shit that's useless to me, anyway) that it can be quite amazing.
And he's always been as much of commitment phobe as I am.
Being with the Irishman has made me forget all of the reasons that I never wanted to get married. Reasons like, becoming invisible, unimportant, and the last person on every one's priority list. Or at least I thought I had forgotten. You see, the Irishman bought me a ring in Boston and before he gave it to me he told me what life would be like with him, what marriage would be like, he promised that it would be difficult but it would also be great and he asked me if I accepted this and I said that I did. I accepted this promise ring, given to me until he can afford an engagement ring which might be this year or next, but given to me with the full intention that I will one day be Mrs. Irishman.
Sometimes while arguing with the Irishman I am not battling just him but every single one of my ex boyfriends and many adults that I was placed in the care of while growing up. Sometimes the Irishman stares mournfully at me and says, "Why did you say that? You didn't need to be so mean," and thus reminds me that this is not a battle ground, that I don't need to go for jugular every single time, that if I enter the room unarmored chances are I will come out unscathed. I wish I had had that self possession the last few days. I wish I had experienced the moments where my mouth opens and closes like a fish because if I'm not on attack I am somewhat lost, looking for a new road, an unpaved but softer road, with less rocks and jagged cliffs. Why did I forget the guidelines I've made up in my head, always touch during a disagreement, say 'I love you' out loud, not to remind him but me, and if you have nothing nice to say then make something up. It's not always easy, this whole, being nice, thing.
That's the last thing I love about the Irishman, not only does he try, but he reminds me to too.
*I forgot how to spell adjective and originally spelled it this way, 'adjetive,' then sat staring at it for five minutes wondering why it looked so funny before it occurred to me to use spell check. Now, how do you spell Moor on?
