Glamour "Hers" Column - February 1994

My husband pushed me around Disney World in a wheelchair during my second pregnancy, when huge varicose veins in my legs made the prospect of standing in lines unbearable. While careening through Fantasyland with our 2-year-old son on my lap, we were stopped by a costumed "host" who invited us to watch the daily parade from a special area that was reserved, he noted with respectful courtesy, "for our mobility-impaired guests and their families."

Until that moment I had not thought of myself as mobility impaired, but I liked the sound of it. Had I tried to characterize my condition, I'd have come up with something self-deprecating like Temporarily Blimpoid With Purple Legs. The experience taught me about the power of labels. And it showed me the truth of that old saw: Label the glass half full and you'll think like an optimist.

A cynic might call it semantic self-deception, but I've found this concept helpful in another part of my life. Instead of using the pejorative premenstrual syndrome for monthly outbreaks of temporary insanity, I now prefer to think of myself as Cyclically Challenged. I considered several other labels including Hormonally Impaired, Periodically Disadvantaged or just plain WACKY (Woman at Cycle, Kindly Yield). But I chose C.C. because cyclic alludes not only to the unsettling, much-belabored premenstrual lows, but also to the remarkable, little-discussed postperiod highs. And challenge characterized the positive mind-set that's critical for dealing with disturbing monthly phenomena, such as bursting into tears because the post office is closed.

I've only recently acknowledged that monthly hormonal fluctuations affect me. In my teens, twenties and early thirties, I'd react to any such suggestion with a snarling denial. (How many women with PMS does it take to change a light bulb? None! You can damn well do it yourself.) And I've always prided myself on never letting my cycle interfere with my life: I've run 10K races and staff meetings, written cover stories on deadline and nursed a sick child through the night-then worked all the next day-during "that time of the month."

I am woman, hear me roar.

But now, after my 8-year-old son and 5-year-old daughter have convinced me that there is, in fact, a truck gene and a doll gene, I've come to the politically charged conclusion that-stop the presses-girls are different from boys. Not better or worse, but different. This shocking discovery has given me a willingness to recognize my distinctively cyclical mood swings.

Coping with my Cyclically Challenged times goes beyond just minimizing the madness of the lows-I've also learned to take advantage of the highs. Estrogen has a mood-elevating effect, and the post-period hormonal rush that pumps me with optimistic energy makes it clear why females bear the children and live longer than males. I try to schedule major projects for this time of the month, when I'm relentlessly cheerful, unbelievably productive and must be reminded to eat.

During my C.C. days, I've found that I can stave off the worst of the lows by being sure to get enough sleep, eat properly and exercise daily. If I don't, the sensation of tiny insects buzzing beneath my skin will accelerate to a frenzied roar that is bound to climax in a distressing loss of cool.

Thinking in terms of Cyclic Challenge also has helped me escape from the PMS "disease" mentality, which implies that something is wrong with me at a particular time of month. "The curse" and other negative labels carry the offensive implication that normal - i.e., male - functioning is steady-state, and cyclical female functioning is abnormal, a punishment for the crime of womanhood.

True, women's lives are especially cyclic. But the reality is, we're all cyclical creatures. One of the characteristics that distinguishes people from rocks is our ability to grow and change.

Now when my husband calls my attention to "that time of month," I try not to be defensive. But I usually can't resist calling his attention to where he is in his cycle-is it a frantic "Don't bother me" period of late nights at work or the relative calm of a nondeadline week? Is it playoff time, the Super Bowl or Wimbledon, with their varied demands of intense TV watching? Or can we actually schedule social events without consulting the sports pages? If he makes a snide comment about my "moodiness," I remind him that his sports cycles climax in either manic euphoria or a black despair that makes my worst hormonal funk seem like mild indigestion.

So if I find myself weeping uncontrollably because a light bulb burns out, I check the calendar. Chances are good that it's C.C. time, and I'm no longer too proud to ask for help. My husband is always glad to oblige. Unless, of course, the Redskins lose. Then we'll both just sit in the dark.