Bee Eye Tea See H

A local female recently remarked to me that I’ve been suffering from male PMS. I scoffed at the preposterous notion and emphatically denied any connection between my hormones and my mood swings in any form of the word.

But the more I thought about it, the more strange, little coincidences were beginning to surface. Almost five months ago to the day I was feeling relatively the same: trapped, frustrated, fed up, short tempered, irritable, and generally bitchy. And after cross-referencing signs, symptoms, and possible causes, I think I’ve found the problem.

You see, if it were something as simple as a monthly hormonal imbalance that I knew was approaching, I could simply use sheer power of the mind and will to overcome said imbalance and counterattack the mood swing. But it wasn’t.

In case #1 I felt things beginning to build to a boil in February. The SAI was a mere month away and all the Marines were burning the midnight oil, excluding me because I put shit off until the last minute anyways, but babysitting is a tough job and someone had to do it. So there I was, making sure that Gunny’s mission to the Marines was being understood, supervised and accomplished, and I was neglecting all the everyday things that keep me sane: cycling, weight training, beer drinking, movie watching, and general whoring around. For shame!

Then one day, as the SAI got closer and closer, I simply stopped babysitting, walked out our back hatch to the gym, and began throwing weights around once again. Following that I mounted my trusty hog (a.k.a. my bike) and went for a ride to nowhere. With every repetitive grunt, revolution of pedal, and pint of sweat, I felt better and better.

The SAI came and went, producing nothing but outstanding findings as predicted when I found myself being whisked away to Ottawa, Canada to fill the Detachment Commander’s position.

That was all fine and dandy, and I really was living the life of a fat man at Burger King, but a one-week notice of another SAI caught me off guard in early July. I was reeling from last minute preparations. The IO arrived the evening of 7 July, and that afternoon, unknown to me at the time, was the last day I’d get a full workout for two weeks.

Keep in mind the SAI in itself didn’t keep me from working out entirely. Luckily I had completed my rotation and would only have to take one extra day off before getting back to my cycle. But misfortune struck an evil blow late Saturday afternoon following the Hope volleyball tournament.

As I wandered out of the tournament arena I spotted the honey to the fly, the candy to the baby, the spoon to the crack addict. An open arm wrestling challenge! No less than three (3) Canadian arm wrestling professionals/representatives were hosting it. What luck! I mingled with the crowd, casually observing poser after poser get their butts kicked in assorted humiliating ways. I chuckled quietly to myself.

After thirty minutes or so of meandering around, one of the hosts glanced over and asked “You wanna give it a try?” Sucker! I thought and sauntered over to the bench. “How do you do this?” I asked with a twinkle in my eye and an Ace up my sleeve. He proceeded in explaining to me several methods and tricks to getting the most power out of a match, or “pull” as the seasoned pros call it, and I listened with interest. Hell, I even picked up a few of the tricks I hadn’t known before.

I gave a few experimental pulls for technique and gave it a go. It was a match worthy of the Coliseum of Rome! We pulled and tugged and grunted and sweat(ed?) for what seemed like hours. We were drawing a crowd because, as of yet, the man hadn’t been beat. Everything was on the line. My homeys, my rep, my hood. I wouldn’t give in. By the time it was all said and done, I had beaten the #6 man in the country both right and left handed. My internal demons cheered triumphantly, I congratulated him on a job well done, and walked off a cham-peen.

My execution was flawless, my technique perfect. But somehow, just somehow, I managed to do some serious damage to my radiobrachialis. My arms began to seize up in the days following, curling up in an arthritic hook-type pose, rendering all weight lifting useless. I was trapped in the hell I had created out of ego and pride. My only comfort was that I had, indeed, beaten the little bastard.

That was Saturday, 10 July. Two days ago was my first full day back in the gym in over two weeks, and it has taken its toll on my psyche. Sure, I nickel-and-dimed a few good leg and ab workouts, but it wasn’t the same as the full-body I had been used to. I was becoming irritable, uncompromising, irrational, and downright mean. I was becoming, gulp!, a bitch.

Things have taken a turn for the better lately, I’m happy to report. I’m back in the gym on a regular basis. I’m even training for my pending, albeit horribly delayed, Lewis and Clark trail mountain bike tour taking place later this summer. My arms are almost completely healed and the road ahead is an optimistic one.

Life is, once again, a pleasure living, but I’m keeping a bottle of Midol next to my bed from now on, just to be safe.