I told my first husband that every time he wore red shoes it was a warning that he was having PMS (premenstrual syndrome). I knew that I had to stay away, far away, whenever he saw me with them. I no longer have that husband, but I still have a few days a month when nothing works out, I don’t like anyone, and I cry for no good reason. My first husband traveled a lot on business and he wasn’t always privileged to witness my mood swings during red shoe week. It wasn’t until he changed positions within his company and started spending more time at home that our marriage fell apart. I blame the red shoes and his lack of ability to deal with an irrational woman. It is not your fault. Every elementary school should require that boys take a class in the proper PMS protocol before becoming men and begin trying to “fix” a temporarily fragmented woman. They should at least be warned that it is a futile effort not to further annoy women by giving them unsolicited advice. Instead, kids should be instructed on how to invest in good camping gear or 100 Ways to Sleep on the Couch. My second husband understands this, but I think his first wife trained him. I can’t take the credit. He just “knows” when it’s time to go golfing or make an appointment with the psychiatrist, for him, not for me. I’m good. I’m just a woman on the PMS / Menopause carousel.
Now that I’m in my 40s, not only do I have PMS, I also have PTM (Personal Tropical Moments) symptoms of early menopause. That’s French for “hot flashes” in case someone of the male gender is reading this and doesn’t understand why her friend was fanning herself with the leather-bound menu at that 5-star restaurant he took her to. You know the only place I’m talking about. You thought taking her there would earn you some points, but she drank too much red wine (your first clue was the color red) and she was asleep when you took her home.
For wiser and more experienced middle-aged women, having this dual diagnosis is like having PMS all the time with an extra week of “red shoe time” each month. It’s hard to tell if my tantrums are caused by PMS or pent-up anger issues from being so codependently nice to everyone when I was younger. Probably both; I’m thinking of dyeing my feet red. Red nail polish, while chipped and attention-grabbing, just doesn’t get the message across.
And, speaking of toes, let’s talk about wedding bands. Yes, it is red shoe week and I am somewhat random in my thought process. I have a hard time remembering to wear my wedding ring. I always take it off and forget where I put it. I think forgetting is also part of menopause; I certainly wasn’t like that in my thirties. Now that I’ve gained a few pounds (well, 30 pounds) since I got married the second time, the band is too tight and restrictive, like marriage in general. There are times when I don’t want to put the energy and effort into a daily relationship with a guy that I can’t be mad at. My second husband laughs at me when I have one of my episodes. Maybe I conveniently forget to wear the ring. After all, it indicates that I’m unavailable, and honestly, there are times when I don’t want to rule out my other options. If I’m going to wear a “stay away” ring, I can also wear a toe ring. I don’t mind people avoiding my toes.
