I don’t mean to brag, but I lead a pretty healthy lifestyle. I don’t smoke unless my hair is on fire. I exercise, except when I’m in an internet-induced stupor. I eat obnoxiously healthy 95% of the time. And I try to manage my stress with loving, hippie, New Age-Christian thoughts. Considering that in my twenties I was a promiscuous ball of toxic thoughts, working my way from one microwave cake to another, it is pretty darn amazing.

My healthy lifestyle didn’t stop my hormones from going bat-sh!t crazy when I hit forty, though, much to my dismay. My ob/gyn, who I deeply respect for her love of bacon and Otis Redding in the O.R., suggested I go on the pill. However, I’m oddly resistant to medication of all kinds. I support the idea of medication, I just don’t like the idea of it being mine and having to take it every day. It’s a commitment issue.

I’m better at cutting things out than adding things in. One of the benefits of being raised on guilt is that I’m scary-good at self deprivation. It’s one of my super powers. So instead of adding in birth control, I decided to cut out sugar and caffeine. And joy.

Yay me! Step back, synthetic hormones!  I got this!

So imagine my surprise this month when the PMS fairy kicked down my door and made me her beyotch? I tried to explain that she was visiting the wrong house because I am living a life of righteous deprivation like a Tibetan Monk, but she threw me in a hormonal headlock anyway. She is not a nice fairy. You’ll never see her being celebrated in Wiccan circles.

Suddenly I am tired, irritable and ready to cut someone for a burger and milkshake. And not a paper cut either. A real cut that might even require stitches. And a band-aid.

Then my son starts spontaneously crying for ice cream. Not “I want ice cream,” “No you can’t have ice cream,” and then tears, but tears first, then “why are you crying,” “Because I want ice cream.” That kind of emotion over dessert foods can only be brought on by one thing and it rhymes with pormones.

I infected my son with my ladiness like the Swine Flu. Dang it! I should have worn a surgical mask and hermetically sealed underwear. Now two out of four members of this household are a mess-trogen.

I can’t layer hormonal craziness on top of my usual craziness like some sort of Dagwood Insanity Sandwich. I don’t know whether I need to wave some burning sage over my uterus or contact a priest for a full on estrocism, but something must be done about this. I have to get a handle on this before our whole house is infected with the evil spirit of Estrogen and there are casualties.