My hormones and my husband

When I am in the throes of PMS everything I have never quite liked about him gathers an inch south of my belly button.

By Sheri Cooper

Sep 25, 2002 | Every month we have the same fight. He says it's because of my period. Says it in a timid sort of way: "You are PMS, aren't you?" It's as if he's a bullfighter inserting a barbed wooden stick into the side of my neck.

I never can get myself to agree, but then I'm probably in a thicket of the PMS forest so what do I know? The fight usually does coincide with the 10 days before my period, which I will not admit to until the 11th day. And every month it comes as a miserable surprise to me that I feel this way. I think whatever is bothering me is real as rain and he insists it's a hormonal mirage and he just needs to "lie low."

Whatever the case, there I am with these thoughts. I look at him, the man I married and love very much, and I'm looking at his profile in the front seat across from me in the car. (I'm letting him drive because I am trying to prove to myself that even though it is right before my period I can allow him control of the wheel) I notice something about his temple area that I do not like; a certain weakness, an old-manness that might be creeping up. He has an oddly shaped small double freckle there and a strand of gray hair and his skin looks a bit thinner there.

We're in the car on the way to see the movie "Unfaithful." I'm looking at him and he turns his eyes from the road and says, "What? Are you looking at my hair? I'm really bald, aren't I?"

"No no," I say, "not looking at you at all. Geez."

I turn facing front again, clutching the straps of my black Coach backpack purse, the same way old ladies like my grandmother held the double-handled purses that made snap sounds when shut. I have lied and I feel no conscience about it whatever. Him and his vanity about his hair.

"I have finally figured out that middle section," he says, looking over at me while he's supposed to have his eyes on the road, which makes me nervous as hell.

"What song," I ask as if I'm interested.

"That song called, 'I Don't Want To Hear It,'" he says and I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.

"Oh, the jazz one ... Hmmm ... Yeah, you've been fretting over that one," I say, looking straight out the front window at the road, hoping he'll take a clue from it and start watching where he's going.

"So I like it." He hums it for me, but I can never tell melodies of songs by humming. I need some other reference point.

"Oh, that's nice," I say. I know I'm sounding like a bitch who does not care, but everything I have ever not quite liked about him, small annoyances in the 12 years we've been married, are heaped together and thrown into a white clapboard junk drawer located about an inch south of my belly button.

It is the day my period is due, and I am using what I have learned to avoid a fight with him. If I am not careful I will say something that I will regret for the other three weeks of the month -- something mean, something that cuts and leaves a scar. Just the thought of one of those remarks and I see a picture in my mind of him biting the inside of his mouth and going still and quiet as a bird in a war zone. Best not to hip-hop or even fluff wings. Just sit still until it's over.

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