She's Writing a Novel

Today I was on edge. By early afternoon, I thought I would run screaming out of my skin. I did a mental inventory; post-period, not stressed about anything, not thinking about anything in particular...what was my problem? The Russian lover noticed something was wrong the way you notice something is wrong when you're standing next to the lit fuse of a bomb. "You're about to snap, I believe," he said in the bored voice of a man who is used to having women snap all around him. "Uhhghhluhh." I replied, in the strained voice of a woman who is trying not to snap.
"Maybe we could leave the city for the afternoon," he suggested.
The mere idea created even more anxiety for me.

"I think...I think I want to go the gym. I think I want to run and stuff." I mumbled.
"Ok" he shrugged with the shrug of a man who has learned it best to let women act on their whims.

I changed and trotted across town, buoyed by the thought of stepping inside the sterile air of the gym and working myself into a euphoric exhaustion. But when I reached the gym, I realized I had forgetten my pass tag. The staff at the front desk saw my face. "Is something wrong?"

"I forgot my tag," I said in the horrified voice of someone confessing to murder.
"Ok, well-"
"I don't have a photo ID either. But I'll give you my social security number, anything..." I said.
The manager just took my hand held it. "It's ok, honey. We don't even have your social security number here. Just give us your name today, OK?"
My relief was immediate. I was a drug addict with my next fix in hand.

Once on the treadmill, the mystery tension started to immediately loosen its noose. But it was when the wind changed and the skies opened and I saw that outside it was raining like all hell that I really started to feel the release.

Apparently, my agitation was merely barometric in nature.