Two Sundays ago, Craig and I passed each other in the hallway. I said something to him in passing. I don’t remember what it was. Nor do I remember the intent to deliver my message in a bitchy tone.
I heard him grunt in frustration.
“Uh-oh,” I thought, “What did the kids do now?”
“Kristin?” he addressed me carefully.
“Ya?” I answered, hoping I wasn’t going to have to help fix whatever problem he’d just stumbled upon.
“When are you going to start your period?” he asked.
“What?” I asked, completely taken offguard. What was he talking about? I had been nice all day.
“I’m just curious – When are you supposed to start your period?” he asked again with reserved patience.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But not any time soon. I just finished before we went up north for the 4th. It hasn’t been a month yet.” I quickly did the math in my head, praying I was right. “Why?” I asked skeptically.
“Ohhhhh, I was just wondering,” he said in the same frustrated grumble as before.
Wait a minute – I was the reason for the grumble?? I didn’t get it. We hadn’t even fought! I thought it had been a good day. My curiosity was killing me, but I chose not to question him further. If he was asking me when I was going to start my period, I probably wasn’t going to like his answers.
Fast forward to the next morning. After Craig left for work, I went to the bathroom. Low and behold, I started my freaking period.
“Damn it!” I said aloud.
Damn it because I hate being on my period. It’s gross. A pain in the ass. No sex for a week.
But most of all? Damn it because Craig had predicted it! Damn it because I was going to have to admit he was right. Damn it because I was a bitch and didn’t even realize it!
Embarrassed, I sent him a text:
Then I made a commitment to keep better track of my personal dates. Because if he can predict my cycle even when I’m unaware, imagine how awful it must be for him when I know I’m being a hormonal bitch.