Blood, Sweat and Tears

I am feeling somewhat more humanoid when I arrive at Scott's after my long perilous journey through the bowels of Hell. He greets me warmly and does not seem to notice that my appearance is a little more ragged around the edges than usual. Love is blind for sure.

Scott’s younger daughter has left for the neighbor’s house where comfort food will be comprised of a selection of Doritos, Popcorn and Funions and be accompanied by Xbox 360. So much more fun than dinner with Dad and his new infatuation.

For the rest of us, comfort food takes the form of burgers and fries and pints of beer at a local pub – Scott and I, accompanied by his older daughter and her newly minted boyfriend. They had their first date just days after us.

A double date with a pair of high school juniors. With junior licenses.

Perfect – designated drivers! Small price for them to pay for a free meal.

A giant burger smothered in blue cheese and carmelized onions, a sky-high pile of shoestring fries with some kind of Secret Sauce that seems to be the winningest combination of mayo and Worcestershire sauce ever, and a pint of ice cold IPA, and I am in top form. Aunt Flo is no match. Bring it on, sister!

Scott, who is technically a righty, but does admirably as a southpaw thanks to his mother coaching him in sports and being a southpaw herself, eats with his left hand and keeps his right hand pressed against my lower back the entire time. Even as he is busting on me for being afraid to drive his sports car, and razzing me about something harebrained I did in high school, and describing my uniquely unflattering band uniform while I describe his ridiculous Grand Poobah band hat.

Somehow this pleases me beyond description.

This is a guy who recognizes all the bells and whistles and other winning hallmarks of The Monthly Bill.

And this is a guy who, when realizing that the Curse is upon you, does not put a garland of garlic around his neck and keep his distance while you suffer the vapors and the mood swings and the teeth gnashing episodes and the Katy-bar-the-door consumption of food.

And this is a guy who also, when realizing that the Curse is upon you, does not treat you like a delicate china doll, and offer you tea and a hot water bottle, and dim the lights and talk in hushed tones, maintaining steady upkeep of your Pamprin levels and talking baby talk while you are recovewing fwom da big bad menstruwal whammy to the point where you want to strangle him with the cord to your heating pad.

Life simply goes on, blood, sweat, tears and all.

As awkward a subject as it is at any age for any new couple, Scott is a champion among men. Undaunted. Not inconvenienced. For him your period is your period. Period. Part of who you are. Comes with the package. And the peri-menopause? Well if you want to date in your age bracket, and Scott evidently does, this is par for the course. Even if you find yourself a 25 year old, this will happen to her eventually too. No better time than now to face the music. Consider it the flip side to his eventual hair loss and other nifty features of middle age. We'll still look good to eachother through our reading glasses.

Another pint and I have nearly forgotten the horrors of the day, and am nearly out of the cramp zone. Life is indeed good.