The brilliance of Cynthia Heimel is in its complete glorious glory here:
12:26 | PMS and Outfits · Cynthia Heimel
Hello, I’m premenstrual. So I’ve chained myself to the radiator.
Why? Must you ask?
I’ve chained myself to the radiator because if I give myself an inch, I’ll go shopping. And if I go shopping I will buy something. And that thing I buy, that thing I find myself madly and irrevocably in love with, the thing that I think I’ve secretly wanted all my life and only finally had the courage to buy will probably be a brightly voluminous turquoise jumpsuit with epaulets. I’m not crazy about jumpsuits. I’ve shunned turquoise since I was seven. I hate epaulets.
But today I don’t. Today I think of epaulets as the bee’s knees. Today I think I might have been hasty in condemning jumpsuits and turquoise. Today I want to be wild and free as the wind. I have PMS. I am insane. Really bonkers. If you live in England and happen to have PMS when you commit a murder, you can be acquitted. England is a very enlightened country.
You wouldn’t believe the boots I got once. Putrid green. There was fringe involved, and I believe some silver studs. Maybe not, I can’t bear to open the box and look at them.
The buying of unfortunately colored boots is the biggest symptom of PMS. I was having a business lunch with a perfectly awful girl once, the kind of girl who steals boyfriends. She was wearing neon-blue, leather cowboy boots. Snakeskin and suede inserts. Scalloped tops. Tassels. Beige stacked heels. Excruciating. You could kill yourself just looking at them.
“What do you think of my boots?” she asked.
“When did you buy them?” I asked.
“Last week sometime,” she said.
“When was your last period?” I asked.
“It just started today,” she said. “Why?”
“No reason,” I said. “The boots are extremely pleasant.”
“You don’t think they’re a little busy or something? I’m having doubts.”
“On the contrary, I think your boots are very stylish and delightful,” I said, remembering how she tried to steal Rita’s boyfriend at a party once.
Once in the throes of PMS I had to go to a crucial meeting that would determine my entire future. I had to look great.
I surveyed the contents of my closet and burst into tears.
“I have nothing to wear!” I wailed. “Everying I own is too boring, boring, boring!”
Then I ransacked my drawers until I came upon this utterly charming, tomato-red sweater shoved behind some old bathing suits.
“Why, you cute thing,” I said to the sweater. “I wonder why I buried you.” Then, looking behind some boxes in a closet, I happened upon a magenta skirt.
“What a chic idea,” I decided.
I went through my tights and in a trice found a lovely burgundy-hued pair. A cerise jacket and scarlet shoes completed my ensemble.
“I am a symphony of reds,” I sang to myself as I left the house.
Luckily a security guard stopped me on my way to the meeting.
“You’re kidding about the outfit, right?” he asked.
“Out of my way, little man,” I commanded. “You just don’t understand innovations of style.”
“I understand that you look just like my wife does right before she gets her period,” he said. “‘Joe,’ my wife says, ‘you ever catch me trying to leave the house like this, lock me in a closet.’”
“You think a bright green dress instead?” I asked him.
”Do yourself a favor, go home and put on a navy suit,” he said.
So I did and so here are the PMS rules. Neglect them at your own peril:
Mark of on your calendar the day you will become insane. When that day arrives, you are officially on PMS-Watch. Call a nonpremenstrual friend to make decisions for you, even what to have for breakfast, because if she doesn’t, you’ll have Ring Dings and Valium.
When you’re not premenstrual, assemble a tasteful outfit for meetings-that-could-change-your-life. Make sure this ensemble hangs in the designated PMS area of your closet. Make sure you wear it.
One week before your period, give all your credit cards to a close friend. Tell her to lock them up until your third day of menstruation. By then the desire for hideous boots has flown.
Keep away from guns, knives, and epaulets.