Probably Menstrual Synchronicity

There is a black cloud lurking above our office, and my suspicion is that its laden with estrogen and progesterone. Everyone has been somewhat tense this week, mass quantities of potato chips and cookies are being consumed, and I think I overheard Frankie complaining about feeling bloated.

We have PMS.

Now gentlemen, I know you're saying, "We don't get PMS!" Please let me explain. You get ours. It's as simple as that.

As reported in an earlier post, the office is predominantly male and the vast majority of them worked with other men in their previous workplaces. One may criticize this lack of diversity in the workplace, but I'm not going to lie--it was a safe move on their part. Listen, I know none of us ladies want to 'fess up and you guys will never point it out in a woman's presence (if you had, natural selection--which, by the way, may come in the form of a stiletto pump--would have kicked you out of the gene pool already), but let's just go ahead and face the facts: Women can be...umm...a little different once in a while (::cough::onceamonth::cough::). When you isolate us, you're likely to stand a chance of survival. When faced with a pack of women working/cycling at the same time, however, my, my, my, you are in biiiiig trouble. Why? Because it's contagious. The whole situation is comparable to being the one sober guy/gal at a party while everyone around you is trashed. You may not realize it, but you start to assume the behavior of the drunks around you (minus the puking, passing out, and, if you're lucky, the beer goggles). It's an inexplicable phenomenon, but it does happen. I've seen it.

While I do believe that several of my officemates suffered from these symptoms prior to the arrival of the XXX ladies, I've noticed a change in behavior in some of the men over the past 9 months. For example, Dan (nicely) asked Paul to write up a few tickets for trades he had done overnight. This launched a tantrum which included a brief period of yelling, one good punch on the trading desk, a period of silence and, a few hours later, a heartfelt apology for his outburst: "I'm just...I'm just really sorry. It's just, you know, I've been really busy...I've just got a lot going on." Nothing a quality chocolate bar can't cure, honey. He should have asked Greg for a fix--he was downing truffles all day long. Dan had a migraine, Katie had a fight with one of our equities brokers, Beth was "just tired" and I have the complexion of a 13-year-old. When Sean was told that there were new rules for the office golf pool (note: these people are addicted to gambling, and will bet each other on any sports event--actually, ANY event you can think of), he refused to participate unless the rules were repealed. He was (in essence) told tough shit, and so he spent the remainder of the afternoon sulking elbow-deep in potato-chips. It's time to start thinking about setting aside this week each month as one where we abandon all hope of getting along, and, instead, beat the crap out of each other. It isn't too late to include two of those American Gladiator jousting pedestals in the office renovations.

Anyway, it's time to run to the armory to prep myself for tomorrow. I'll be outfitted with a bottle of Motrin, a snack-pack, a Lindt bar and maybe a mirror, just in case someone goes Medusa on me.