Turns out there is something worse than anticipation... Bendii syndrome.
Bendii syndrome is a thing that happens to some Vulcans of age with the right genetic coding. It erodes the emotional controls that Vulcans learn through the Kolinar. It isn't a defect of the training or the will, the brain simply melts down the synaptic functions and you get off the chart emotions that make the worst case of Plak tow look like a bit of indigestion. In human women it is probably most closely related to PMDD.
I will be looking into this more closely as the surface appearance of the malady seem to merit further inspection. The first noticeable symptom is that during periods of altered hormonal levels I can not recognize myself as the person whom I have known for nearly 40 years. I seem to become obsessive, irrational and paranoid with a shorter fuse than my Germanic heritage merits. In addition, I seem to have developed a driving need for sexual gratification that makes last year's pon farr episode look like a Disney movie.
The rational and logical me knows that Sir Knight, having made only overtures and no commitments and having locked himself behind castle walls that he has laid, is not an option in this moment or any other moment in the foreseeable future. He is only the flirty guy. Flirting is not the promise of more nor is it a thing to base ones hopes on. And in the state of Bendii syndrome that attacked me last week, I can not depend on my logic to puzzle out cryptic meanings in friends' posts. Sir Knight has been true to his credo. I have abandoned mine. In my right mind, I know that I read him correctly in the incident of pronouncing my full name. I also know, in that right mind, that the evidence as a whole does not support the direction that my thinking had taken. His credo is good, solid and safe for him as well as for anyone that he might be interested in. While there is no doubt of his interest there is considerable question as to intent.
The rational and logical me knows that a man of integrity is worth more than his weight in cold pressed latinum. A man of integrity is rare. A man of integrity is what every woman wants. Sir Knight isn't Sir Knight just because the term offers me the opportunity to play with great archaic references and herladic puns. It is because he is a man of integrity, a worthy friend and a valuable ally. In so many ways, he is the Spock to my Kirk. Or better yet the Worf to my... okay there isn't a TNG character as whacked out as I am. But if I were a crewman on the Enterprise I could not doubt Worf's value as a member of the team. And I can not doubt Sir Knight's value. Worf would not be Worf if he would abandon his principles for emotional gratification. Spock would not be the Vulcan I admire if he would abandon his nature for the fleetingest of emotions. And Sir Knight, while I would, on any level with any amount of illogical love, to be his, would not be the person whom I admire if he were to abandon his integrity.
Modification of said rules is one thing. If he were to look with reason and not with fear at me and our work environment he would see that both places are safe harbors. No one wishes him the malice he met in his last relationship. But he sees only with his fears now. One can not fault him for wanting to protect himself. [But I sure as hell can cram a photon torpedo up some one's ass if I ever meet her. How can you do that to a human being and sleep soundly at night?] For him to abandon his resolve, to recklessly throw open the gates and drop the drawbridge for invading Huns is to fiddle while Rome burns.
I know this. And in the state I have been in I do not recognize the fact that I can not stand people who do dumb ass things like that. How many times have I condemned my sister for doing that with the string of boyfriends she had in high school? How many movies have I sat through, screaming at the male lead because he is about to fall into an obvious and poorly crafted pit of some designing woman's despair? [That is why I don't watch chick flicks.] I hate it when anyone does that. I hate it when men do that. And yet... in this state in which I am as different from myself as an Orion slave dancer... I don't care.
While it is happening I feel as though I am watching a movie, looking at that door that has been left ajar which had been closed only moments before, knowing I shouldn't open it but compelled by a mysterious force of stupidity to go through that door to my bloody, gruesome end. I know I am being unreasonable. I know that he is only playing at worst, trying to figure out what he wants at best and that no good can come of this if the wrong me surfaces when he makes up his mind, if that ever happens.
And then, as I am trapped inside myself watching me being stupid, saying things that never come out of this good geeks mouth, anticipating 6 kinds of horrifying stupid that have yet to manifest, I think: Is this what happened to mom?
I definitely need to check into this PMDD thing. From what little I know, the most accurate predictive factor is the strength and quality of menstrual cycles in youth. Mom and I had the same kind of horrifying periods requiring MacGyverisms to prevent the destruction of household goods. The blood flow. The pain. The missed school days... all indicate PMDD on my horizon. I don't really care about the pain. I can manage that with the techniques Verta has been teaching us and a healthy dose of Naproxen. What I can not handle is watching the impostor me mess... no, FUCK up my life while I'm on the otherside of Lewis Carroll's mirror. Oh, if she wants to be a bitch and slap my crazy illogical family around... great. But she best be prepared to permanently steer my starship cause I hate dealing with the aftermath. Normal me gets left cleaning up after her and its embarrassing. I don't know if you remember, but she kinda acts like the Reva Shayne that first came to Springfield back in about 1984/85. You know, the Reva we couldn't stand cause she was Allan Spaulding's pawn.
HEY! That's it! I can just blame this all on Allan.
Jeez if it could be that easy ;)