Hormones. Again. Little did I know that I would breeze through my 20s and 30s ("the Between Time") with nary a peep of raging PMS (although my Dex might disagree; honey, that wasn't hormones, it was bi-polar disorder, and they medicate me now. Down, boy).

When I was a lass, and receiving the fine public-school sexual education curriculum approved by the school district, they presented puberty as some shining threshold over which I would pass and then enter A New World. Everything was linear: first, you'll get your period. Then you get to chill for about 25, 30 years, just dealing with the minor monthly inconvenience. You might get pimples, or PMS, or other hormonal symptoms, but they go away after puberty.

Raging bullshit!!!

I've never gone a month without something erupting on my face, whether minor or of the get-thee-to-an-exorcist proportion. I was lucky enough in the Between Time to not have horrid cramps, and almost never had sore breasts, but now that 41 hit, the tits are swollen up like the Skagit in springtime. They literally feel like ten pounds of hot chowder that I'm carrying around strapped to me. I lift them, one in each hand, and I can actually breathe easier. If there is any chance I can work out and get them to go down even two cup sizes, that's gotta be incentive enough. They have a life of their own, and they get together late at night to discuss new torture for me.

And this not sleeping thing. Big time EFF WORD about that. I've got things to do! I have a massage to give at 9am! That's only five hours away. And here I've been on the computer for the last hour, wishing there was a way to hook myself up to a breast pump and make C cups out of these riled-up DDs.

I've done the ibuprofen thing, and I'm sleeping on the couch, where I can sleep face up without my back protesting. I have no good drugs (trip to Canada, anyone?). I'm not feeling all Earth-mothery and I don't want any tea, thanks so much.

My breasts are outta control!