Running with a Raging Case of PMS: A Cautionary Tale

December 15, 2008

A couple of days ago I decided to man-up, face the freezing temperatures, and do a lap around the neighborhood. The treadmill you see, is an unadulterated crazy maker--and the combination of twenty-five indoor miles a week surrounded by the faux-wood-paneled walls in my basement had me hearing voices.

And they were bad.

They were like, "Aaaaammmmy, just let yourself get super fat..." And, "Aaaaaammmy, order cable and a pizza..." And, "Aaaaammmmy, you are flabulous...."

Bad enough to get me out the door.

I was running past the American Legion Hall, feeling like a total turd in my five layers of clothes, pom-pom hat, blinking light (for safety's sake), and those little spiky things on the bottom of my shoes. As I trotted by the legion, I could see a group of drunk men standing on the balcony, just waiting to heckle the stupid girl to tears.

As I passed, I tried my darnedest to nonchalantly hide my face behind my scarf--you know how it goes, the whole 'maybe if I can't see them then they can't see me' way of living. I learned it from my three-year-old.

Unfortunately three-year-olds don't know crap, and the comments were raining down like stinky sludge on my pretty little pom-pommed head. "I hate these guys," I thought as I kept trudging along, "I really seriously hate these guys."

And then I heard it.

An insult that made me stop dead, turn on my heels, and face those red necks head on.

"Her pants are bunchy," he said. "It's looks like she's wearing a diaper."

Did you catch that? IT LOOKS LIKE SHE'S WEARING A DIAPER.

You can tell me I run like a three-legged mule deer who just got shot, you can obnoxiously yell RUN! RUN! RUN! in my direction, you can even shout all of your perverted-old-man-very private-ideas in my direction, but damn-it-to-hell, NO ONE tells me it looks like I'm wearing a diaper.

"I'm sorry. What'd you say," I shouted in the direction of the balcony?

Silence.

"I couldn't hear you. What'd you say," I hollered again?

Nothing.

"Is this your truck" I yelled?

Two of the men pointed at the third, quickly providing me with the obvious answer.

"Oh," I said casually as I grabbed the antenna and pulled it in my direction. "I like your accessory. It's really cute."

And just like that I grabbed the little plastic large-mouth bass decoration off the top of his antenna, looked it in the eye, and hucked it into the icy cold lake.

"Better lock your truck," I shouted, as I ran toward Main Street with an elevated air of confidence.

Then, approximately ten strides later, I ducked behind the dumpster at the ice cream shop and called Jared from my cell phone. I was like, "Dude. You've gotta come pick me up. NOW!" And as I waited--heart racing, palms sweating, bowels lurching--I thought to myself, "Maybe diapers aren't such a bad thing, after all."

Because right about then, I seem to have messed my pants.

The End.