unless you are competing in the olympic freestyle or trapezing for cirque de soleil in a white thong, it is unacceptable to believe that the breaking down of your uterine lining is sufficient grounds to leave your desk and go home to lay on the couch, eat an entire carton of edy's french silk (light) ice-cream, while watching oprah winfrey talk to her dead relatives about the latest tear jerking novel exploring the obstacles involved in loving a prison inmate (as a devout nun) during the civil war.
"cramps" are the ultimate 'get out of jail free'- particularly when talking to a male supervisor. and while my ovaries are riddled with cellulite-- i will wait for my oil/tyres/lightbulbs to be changed, or toilet/sink/vacuum cleaner to be "plunged"-- unless your uterus is hanging between your knees, the equivalent volume of a fish aquarium is pouring down your legs, or it feels like a re-enactment of the run for the bulls in your abdomen, you can certainly sit at your desk and check your email/facebook/ebay account/stalk exes (and their exes), like the rest of us.
PMS is not an officially recognized handicap, but will it eventually warrant special parking spots at the mall? reserved toilet cubicles nearest to a public restroom's entrance? rear view mirror tags to be hung during that week indicating, to police and other motorists, your hurried and erratic trajectory to the closest DQ drive-thru for a maui brownie madness blizzard? pre-boarding a flight before a 95 year old biddy who is folded up like an ironing board because of her chronic athritis? bonus rewards at blockbuster to rent yourself a meg ryan movie AND a family sized bar of hershey's? perhaps we will begin to see men calling off because they cut themselves while shaving that morning? or come in late after waiting for their morning glory to dissipate?