One of the many wonderful symptoms of PMS can also be anger. Especially if the husband cannot dust at home.
If your husband uses it very rarely, our author thinks: the microfiber cloth Photo: Wagner/imago
You can congratulate me! I took first place in Wut-Formula 1. There are days, those critical days before the bloody days, when I am furious.
Last night, at 10:30 p.m. The source of the energy for this anger could probably be hormonal in origin. I will give up this investigation. Don't be patient. The thought of having to read articles full of medical terms makes me angry.
Right now I can feel it bubbling again. Because I'm hungry. And I would have to prepare something myself. As?? That is not fair. It should be prepared and served beautifully presented with a candle on a tray on the bed. Should I wake up my husband and let him know how angry I am that he didn't provide me with this service?
I was definitely so angry last night that I wanted to leave the apartment in my pajamas. Without. Flee. Wandering through the night in my too-thin gray pajama pants and my equally-thin unicorn shirt. United only by anger and self-pity. So me, not the sleeping gown too thin. In the end, the prospect of putting on shoes put me off. My life as an angry stray ended before it began.
Voices of reason too silent
What happened? One thing can be said: it was my husband's fault. More specifically, his inability to use the duster regularly. His inability to adapt to my cleaning ideas and my pace of completing everyday tasks.
Yes Yes. I can already hear the voices of reason screaming, maybe I can accept it like that, I am an adult after all, people are different and everyone has their own style anyway. I lose my temper, with each one in their own way. Not always, but on the critical days before the days.
The barely audible voice of reason whispers to me: Sarah, not today, wait for the blood. Anger screams against it
Today we really want to dust off the bookshelf on two walls in the living room. That's how it is. Vacuum each shelf, dust the top sections of books, remove cobwebs; I have also detected them. Now the question is: will our marriage survive this? After I almost became an angry stray yesterday and our neighbors probably already know my bike by heart.
Anger is stronger than reason.
Here is a small impression of the radio play that our neighbors can listen to every month for free: “Microfiber Cloth! Faster! Vacuum cleaner! Are you familiar with these terms? I don't believe it!! You can't live like this! I can not live like this!! Where is my jacket? I will go! We need to dust the closet! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT?”
The barely audible voice of reason whispers to me: Sarah, not today, wait for the blood. Strong anger screams at me: Why exactly doesn't she suggest doing it alone? That dusty scoundrel?! Oh yeah, so she's not doing it correctly. Great in my opinion. For her seventh wedding anniversary I give her a course on how to dust her. A dust removal course.
We're in the seventh damn year. Things are going very well for that. I have to admit it. Although there may be dust everywhere in our apartment, there is none in our love.