...and I'm really, really emotional.

       I'm manstrating.

      I wish I could claim credit for the word, but the Urban Dictionary tells me that it's already been coined.    I was sorry to see that, but glad that I'm not the only guy who ever felt it.

       I don't know from biorhythms and such, but I DO know that there are certain times each month where I'm especially...tender.     Moody.    Irritable.     Cranky.      Maybe even a little bloated.

       I"m manstrating.

       Our house has been undergoing massive outdoor work this summer--big time painting, window work and other carpentry meant to remove the ravages of 20 plus years of Wisconsin weather.      It's meant a lot of time with many strangers poking, scraping, caulking, painting, cutting and nailing.    It's also means you're never alone.     Never.     A strange head pops up in one window.     There's someone else on the deck.    And, there's always a question.      Most days, I'm pretty good.     Today, I wasn't.

       Because I'm manstrating.

       I finally got around to taking the kids' old desktop computer to a shop for a new hard drive the other day--once installed, I figured I could put in the old software myself.     How hard can that be, I thought, as I tackled the project today.    As afternoon became evening, and I found myself chasing my digital tail, I finally gave up.      Not before yelling, cursing and giving the machine a solid wrap on it's chassis.    Stupid.     Immature.  

       Manstration.

       I figured I'd go for a bike ride to rid myself of all the pent-up compu-tension.      Do something positive for my body, as well as my soul.     As I pulled the bike down from the wall, I spotted our old, discarded front door--part of that outside renovation project.      We have a spiffy new aluminum job, one that actually closes without needing an extra push.     One that won't be accidentally left open by one of the kids on the ONE DAY when the winds are gusting up to Katrina speed.        I stared at the old wooden contraption that I had fixed so often, the door through I'd passed so often on my way to work, exotic station-related trips, momentous family events.      The same door through which both of my kids walked on their first day of school.       My daughter on her graduation.     My son at prom.    And, I actually found myself getting...weepy.       About a door.

       Definite manstration.

       I don't think they make Midol for guys--I remember Bill Cosby's routine about dipping into his wife's stash, but it's not my medicine of choice.      Instead, I did the bike ride, worked up a good lather, hung the bike back up (all the time avoiding eye contact with the nearby old door), hopped into the mancave, cracked open a frosty Schlitz (the new "old formula", not the bilge water they passed off on us the past few decades) and fired up some baseball.       

       My eyes dried.     The breasts felt better.     And, I think the swelling went down in my ankles.        I think I might be good.

      At least, for the next 28 days.