It's tough to be a girl (for narrative purposes)

Today was a good day, until it got awful. One of those "when it rains, it pours" situations. Mondays for me are always hectic, because I never get a good night's sleep on Sunday, then I'm running from work to the gym to handbell practice to home to do the homework that's due on Tuesday, so I'm pretty wired throughout. Today, though, was even worse, because it was PMS Day. It's nice, you know, that it happens on a single, pre-planned day, but it always seems to coincide with a bunch of other shit that's going on. There may be a correlation/causation thing at play there, who knows?

And let me just point out, we can use pills to stop babies from happening, and yet we are STILL WITHOUT ROCKET CARS. Science! What gives?

So I left the gym and was driving into Bloomington when I noticed my odometer was saying something: "Check...Gas...Cap." Huh. Did not know cars said that. I thought it was a little strange, though, because I had gotten gas on Friday. Why was this just coming up now? As it turns out, there was no gas cap to check. It was gone. Who steals gas caps? Really? The gas itself had not been siphoned out. And my gas cap was attached to the car. Someone had to go to the trouble of cutting the wire and everything. At that point, you might as well just get yourself a screwdriver and pry the "H" off the hood.

But besides being annoyed I wasn't that stressed out by the stolen gas cap. Bell choir, though, was a mess. We're doing our two most challenging pieces in the next four weeks. And we haven't practiced them much at all, because people go south for the winter, and I'm not a good planner. Really, I should not be in charge of people and planning. Anyway, in the middle of this hard piece that I was playing the huge bells for, my bra (this bra) came undone.

Did not know bras could do that. Huh.

Part of me thought this was awesome, because, you know, I just popped open my bra by the sheer force of my bell-heaving upper body. It's like the girl equivalent of ripping your shirt when you flex! Fear me and my mighty, mighty pecs! On the other hand, now I was braless. Well, it was still there, just floating around under my shirt. It was a padded bra, so it probably looked like I had four boobs. In theory that sounds great, but when you need your torso for damping bells, not so much. Normally this would have been an easy problem to rectify, but I happened to be standing next to the ELEVEN YEAR OLD BOY who just joined the choir. It was uncomfortable. Literally and figuratively.

Then later I was trying to explain a tricky rhythm to everyone and I couldn't make them understand it. I almost started crying. At that point, I had been reduced to an exhausted, gas cap-less, bra-less, rhythm-less lump of medically controlled hormones. Why was it the rhythm thing that set me off? I assume it's the black thing. But at that point I had just had enough.

But then when I got home I called Heather and planned an impromptu train vacation and had a big slice of my coconut cake. And now I'm laying in bed, typing these events from tragic to ridiculous. That's the magic of PMS, I guess. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems at the time. Actually, nothing is ever anything. All the same, I think I'll skip my off week next month. I deserve it. Pending the delivery of my rocket car, of course.