Suburban Slug

I can't be the only woman who goes through this. This particular component, or perhaps side effect, of the whole phase of the moon experience, the cyclical joyousness that those of the fairer sex suffer endure embrace tolerate every 28 days or so.

I'm talking about one specific element of what PMS means to me: a complete and total inability to motivate my sorry ass to do anything remotely resembling a productive task. Some months it is more subtle than others. This month, subtlety would be welcome. This month, a harsh taskmaster with a large whip lashing me unmercifully about the head and shoulders while issuing commandments in a loud harsh tone couldn't motivate me to even do the simplest of tasks.

That's one thing about having children in the house. When children are counting on you, there is no option to completely flake out and be a slug. At times like this, I really miss that structure, that neverending demand. Motivate? Why bother? Where's the fire? What's the rush? It'll wait until tomorrow. Or the next day.

I need something to snap me out of the lethargy and back into my usual productive, detail-oriented, Tee crossing and Eye dotting, getting-the-job-done self. Can someone loan me a toddler for a few days?

On second thought, perhaps I should just relax and go with the flow. Perhaps I should embrace my hormonal limitations and revel in the sheer pleasure that is suburban slugdom at its finest. I'm really quite good at it, after all.

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