ICB. PMS. Don’t. Get. Me. Started.
Welcome to this week’s I Call Bullshit. Let’s get straight into it. So some bloody smart-arse congregation of designer-stubbled preening ad men have concocted a ridiculous campaign suggesting milk will take care of PMS.
Picture them sitting around their long shiny tables, bums squeaking in their exxy leather chairs, waiting for a cute secretary to bring them (soy) lattes and discussing just how ‘cheeky’ their new milk ads are.
Oooo and we’ll have a website and do social media and piss off the feminazis by suggesting women are hormone-ravaged banshees who can be tamed by calcium intake. IT’LL GO VIRAL, they probably thought, with pants-wetting glee.
Oh, the jovial backslapping. Just imagining that self-congratulatory wankfest makes me INCANDESCENT with rage.
So of course it’s bullshit. They took some lame study done years ago that found ludicrous amounts of calcium supplements can ease PMS symptoms in some women. Supplements, not milk.
And as this Time article points out, to get the same amount of calcium from milk you’d have to drink about four glasses a day. And blokes, you don’t want to share a bathroom or a bed with a woman guzzling that much dairy. Trust me, better to leave her curled up in the foetal position sobbing quietly into her pillow.
PMS is a strange beast. Or makes strange beasts. Whatever. Some women barely suffer, some just get cramps. Others, like werewolves under a full moon, transform into irrational, keening creatures held sway by extreme emotion.
Most women, though, just get a bit tetchy. Maybe a slightly shorter fuse than normal. Maybe a little more prone to waterworks.
The one thing guaranteed to ratchet up minor PMS symptoms into full-blown if-I-stabbed-you-now-I’d-get-off-scot-free-on-a-plea-of-temporary-insanity PMS, though, is how our partners react to it.
You don’t care about our tender breasts, our bloated bellies. Our sense of impending doom or our feelings of being misunderstood. You feel a little helpless, and you hate feeling helpless.
So you lash out as though you’re the victims of some sort of mysterious female conspiracy, a lunar cycle rite of passage, women’s business.
And you crack jokes about it and do that defensive thing with your hands that says ‘hey, you’re out of control, lady’. And if this ad hits its mark, you’re going to start offering us MILK. MILK!
It’ll be like when you were a teenager having a fit of the zitty grumps and your Mum would put on a baby voice and ask if you needed to go and have a widdle nap. Arrrgh! Impotent rage to the max!
That’s all I wanted to say. It’s bullshit. It made me angry at first but now it just makes me sad. If anyone wants me I’ll be crying into my slowly melting chocolate icecream.
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