That was one freakin’ expensive apple.  I don’t even particularly care for apples, and to pay for just one, your entire life…well, I hope it was good. Kind of turns you off fruit. 

I am talking, of course, of that apple from the Tree of Knowledge.  Yeah, that’s the one.  The one Eve just had to have.  I really question the validity of that story.  I do not know one single woman who would stick around long enough to hear what a snake has to say, let alone be persuaded by one.  Every woman I know would have run so fast she didn’t leave tracks, or grabbed the biggest rock she could find and smashed that sucker’s head, then made a nice snakeskin purse. 

But no, Eve had to have an apple.  Well, I guess if there’s no chocolate in existence, you’ll get your sugar where you can.  She probably didn’t have some power thing going at all, she just had a sweet tooth.   

And what’s up with Adam?  Did he do everything his wife told him to do? Who wore the fig leaf in that family?  There’s a name for guys like him.  It’s not nice, and it can’t be printed here.  Rather ironic that at the beginning of time it was the woman who called the shots, a risk taker, and the man who followed along.  That pretty much blows a few stereotypes away. 

So here we are, millions of lives later, still paying for that one piece of fruit. Bloating, cramps, irritability, not to mention the convoluted joy of squeezing a human being from your loins. 

Then comes the extended payment plan.  I’ve moved onto that part of the arrangement.  Let’s talk about night sweats, shall we?  Until recently that referred to the sweat pants I wore to bed in the winter.  Now that means sitting up in bed and flapping my T-shirt in the middle of the night. 

And how about sipping your coffee on a frigid winter morning, huddled over your cup, when suddenly instead of reading the newspaper, you are waving it wildly in a back and forth motion while simultaneously pulling off your sweatshirt, as the internal seasons switch from mid-winter to August in the wink of an eye. 

But the best part is the PMS from hell.  Anxious, irritable, hair trigger temper.  Mood swings that make a stay in a sanitarium sound like a viable vacation option.  I’d like to have a talk with that Eve.  She could have had an Eden bag with matching shoes, but no, she picked the freakin’ apple. 

And if I ever see that damn snake, he’d better slither fast.  He doesn’t stand a chance against one middle-aged, pre-menstrual, stressed out, pissed off, mean ass modern day woman. 

Eve was a wimp.