Last night after gorging on BBQ, I was indecisive about dessert. I dragged my boyfriend into 16 Handles (self-serve frozen yogurt), and he remarked, “Ah, crack for girls.” And I immediately turned and walked out. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve had a stubborn, contrarian streak in me. If my mom commented about anything, I’d immediately do the opposite. She’d look at me, exasperated, and say, “Don’t be foolish. Don’t bite your nose to spite your face.” I must have heard that phrase a hundred times by the age of 10 (really f’d up imagery, thanks ma). It was an important lesson, and I still tell myself that whenever I want to fight something I actually want. But every now and again, my “Yeah, F you! You don’t know me” comes out.

Which is what happened last night at 16 Handles. As we continued our walk home, my boyfriend with a very confused and slightly exasperated on his face, asked what happened. I said, “Sorry, I think I’m PMS-ing.” He tilted his head to the side like a dog trying to understand his owner, and timidly asked, “I thought you had PMS last weekend?”

I stuttered and replied, “Yeah, well, I, uh –I PMS for, um…for a long time. Lots of hormones.” He knows me too well to know when I’m full of BS.

Busted.

So, I had to confess: I use PMS as an excuse for everything.

Most women recoil at blaming PMS for mood swings, and I get it. Life as a woman is a constant struggle to be taken seriously by men. To be strong but not a bitch. To be a sensitive but not weak. To be emotional intelligent but not crazy. So we’ve had to fight long and hard against the idea that we’re “PMSing” if our behavior doesn’t fit into the neat little box that men have created for us.

But now that we know the rule, we can break it and really F with men’s heads. It’s like other rules we’ve learned: Don’t start a sentence with “and. ” Don’t eat dessert first. Don’t sleep with a guy on the first date. Yeah, we totally get the importance of learning that rule, but now that I know it and I’m an adult, I can freely – but judiciously – ignore it when appropriate. And come on, guys burnt us at the stake for being witches. PMS-ing them in return doesn’t even come close.

I’m taking it back. PMS is ours again, ladies. Men can’t use it against us, but we sure as hell can use it against them.

Here’s how it works: We’ve so scared men into never uttering “PMS” connected to our behavior that they dare not utter a syllable about it. So now we can now use it to get away with anything.

PMS didn’t make me leave 16 Handles. My own stubbornness did. But it was a lot easier to blame PMS than have to explain my non-hormonal based irrational behavior.

For example, the previous weekend, I got super frustrated on a long bike ride because I was too scared to go around sharp turns on the GW Bridge. There were blind spots, and I couldn’t get over my fear that I’d knock into someone and hurt myself – I’m a little sensitive after my ACL surgery. I yelled at my boyfriend to “Just go on! I’ll freaking meet you at the end!” and huffed off at a water break.

Was that PMS? Hell no. It was my ego because I’m a novice and hate not being good at something, even if it was just my second ride ever. I apologize to him on the ride home, saying, “Sorry for my pity party. It was an especially bad one because PMS was invited. Sorry!” and flashed a smile. He bought it.

Blaming PMS is kind of like how we can say, “Sorry, woman stuff!” to never admit what’s happening.

That appointment on your work calendar that your male colleague asks is flexible? Crinkle your nose and say, “Sorry, no, woman stuff.” He thinks you’re at the gyno, but really Banana Republic has a flash sale. You didn’t lie, you just gave minimal details. It was woman stuff: sale shopping. He was too squeamish to ask, so you got that pencil skirt you’ve been eyeing at 60% off and avoided a boring meeting. Winning.

Or when you’re hungover on Friday and can’t make it to the office. You write to your boss, “Sorry, home sick. Woman stuff.” You were out with your girls dancing to the Madonna-thon at a bar and had one too many “Vogue Vodkas” and when you got home at 2:00 am yell-slurred the lyrics to the Madonna hit, “Don’t Tell Me to Stop” when you’re boyfriend tried to get you to stop dancing and get into bed. Again: Woman stuff. Only women would get drunk in that specific way. If your boss assumes that’s you’ve got menstrual cramps, that’s his sexist assumptions and not your problem. He really should go to gender-sensitivity training, actually.

So ladies, go ahead and use the “PMS excuse” for everything with all the men in your life. Here are some examples to help you start incorporating it into your daily routine:

• “I know I made you come to this restaurant, and we’re already sitting down, but I don’t like anything on the menu so we need to leave and go back to the first place. Sorry! PMS makes me indecisive.”

• “Hey Matt, sorry I said I can’t make it to your two-year-old’s birthday party because I have better things to do with my Saturday, like clip my toenails. Ugh, PMS, it’s the worst, right?”

• “Babe, I know you really want beer tonight, but I want rosé. I need it. You understand, right? PMS.”

• “Bob, I shouldn’t have said, “No, I don’t hate all group work. I specifically hate group work with you.” Sorry. PMS just hates you. Wah-wah.”

• “Honey, sorry I said your grandma looked like the love child of Raggedy Andy and Rainbow Bright in her new church dress and hairdo. The PMS fashion police need to be arrested themselves, yuck.”

• “Pastor, I know you’re supposed to wear black to a funeral, but I just feel better in this pink dress. Kind a hard time of the month for me, got some owies in my belly. Oh, by the way, do you know who that handsome gentlemen over there is? Could you introduce us? Oh,  now is not the time? Um, sorry. PMS.”

Don’t have any guilt, just use it. We’ve earned this. We have monthly cramps and back aches and acne and leak BLOOD out of a hole every month so the human race can exist. Yeah, I’m milking it for every benefit and so should you. #SorryNotSorry