Lunch with a Demon
A simple lunch with a friend can turn into the emotional roller coaster to hell for the victim of PMS demon. The demon has a mind of its own and will do everything possible to have itself heard. The victim is forced to keep the demon at bay while sorting through her erratic premenstrual thoughts and selecting the appropriate, socially acceptable responses. She must also fight the desire to unbutton her skirt or kick off her shoes because of the pain due to premenstrual swelling. All, while staving off an impromptu crying jag and trying to appear sane.
I looked at my watch. Jonathan was fifteen minutes late. If he is not here in five minute, I’m leaving. The hell with him! My PMS mind was racing. He hates me. He’s doing this on purpose. He does not have respect for my time. He obviously doesn’t think that I am important enough for him to show up on time. When he gets here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.
Just as my blood pressure had hit an all time high, Jonathan walked in. “Hi. I’m sorry that I’m late. I stopped to buy these flowers for you.” He handed the bouquet to me and kissed me on the cheek.
My rage disappeared. “Oh, are you late?” I melted. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He motioned to the hostess and indicated that there were two for lunch. She grabbed some menus and asked us to follow her. When we reached our table she smiled at Jonathan and said, “Here we go. Is this okay?”
I thought, What the hell are you looking at! But I said, “This is fine.”
When we sat down, Jonathan took my hand and gazed at me. “You look pretty. I’ve missed you.”
You’re smothering me! “I’ve missed you, too.” I put my hand over his.
He smiled and asked, “How is your day going? Have you been doing anything interesting?”
What the hell do you mean by that? Don’t placate me! You’re not the only person who has something interesting to say. I’m very interesting. “Oh, my day?” I said, “It’s fine. Same ole’, same ole’. Nothing’s new. How about with you?”
Jonathan told me about a recent episode he had with his ex-wife and the expenses of maintaining the two households.
I was hardly listening. The PMS demons were annoyed by the conversation. Me, me, me. You’re so self-absorbed. No wonder she divorced you. I forced a smile, “I’m sure that things will get better for you. You just have to remain positive.”
He looked at the menu, “Are you going to getting the Salad Nicoise?”
What in the hell do you mean by that? Is this your subtle way of telling me I’m fat?
He continued, “I hear it’s great here and I know how much you like it. I think that I will have it as well.”
Nice try, Jonathan. No one is going to tell me what to do or what I should eat. Then I opened the menu. There was too much to choose from. I was in no condition to make a decision. “I’ll have the same.”
He noticed that I was uncharacteristically quiet and asked me, “Are you all right? Is there anything wrong?’
My hormones were raging and my eyes welled up with tears. It’s about time you noticed. “Nothing. I’m fine.” I sucked in my breath and tried to hold back but I couldn’t help myself. I started to cry. The more I tried to compose myself, the worse it got. I got the hiccups. After several glasses of water and five minutes of a relaxation breathing exercise, they subsided, and I apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little premenstrual.”
He smiled sweetly and patted my hand. “Oh, I understand, honey.”
Honey? Don’t honey me! You don’t understand a damned thing! “Thanks for understanding.”
At the next table a woman was trying to calm her child who was pounding his spoon on the table. Jonathan turned to look at the commotion. When he turned back to me he had a big smile on his face. “Children are so wonderful.” He motioned to the toddler, “Isn’t he cute?”
The kid is a brat and the mother should be flogged for bringing him into a restaurant. “He’s adorable.” I smiled.
Jonathan leaned in. “How do you feel about children?”
I was panicked. Aah! Get me out of here! I calmed myself. “They’re wonderful.” I changed to subject. “Is that a new tie?”
It seemed to be a safe subject. That is, unless his ex-wife bought it for him.