Affecting primarily adult males, although children and teenagers are sometimes also afflicted, the impacts of MCP on our society and our economy cannot be overstated. Let me share one example:
Earlier in my life, when my body’s tides were still controlled by the moon, my skin would, at monthly intervals, become very sensitive to the touch. Anything brushing against the down on my arms would set my teeth on edge, and it was worth my husband’s life to attempt a back rub.
During those intervals, I hated fans. The feel of that unrelenting breeze was enough send me over the edge.
One day, while living in Minnesota, I was talking with a group of all-male programmers. Our office was set up as a typical prairie dog village of shoulder-height cubicles. We were standing in the doorways of our burrows, trying to resolve some deep technical issue (that, or discussing the most recent episode of The X-Files). Against the back wall, a standing fan kept the air moving in our little cinder block complex.
As we stood there, talking and laughing, the air began to chafe my skin. Each oscillation was like sandpaper, abrading my last nerve. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I lunged toward the switch.
“This fan is driving me crazy!”
It slowed to a stop and I instantly felt better. I turned around to resume our discussion just in time to see the last guy shrink back into his cube. The place was a ghost town.
Due to the effects of MCP, whatever deep issue we were discussing was left unresolved. With this sudden and shocking onset of
This syndrome wreaks millions, possibly billions, of dollars in untold havoc on the worldwide (yes, this is a global issue) economy, and yet no one has had the vision or perhaps the courage, to take on this scourge.
And the economy is not the only thing to suffer. All around the world, every month, families are put at risk, and the lives of future generations in jeopardy, because men do not have the guts to deal with the monthly flux of their wives and teenage daughters.
But with proper research, a cure could be found. The slinking weasels we see cowering in garages and basement workshops one week out of every month could become full-time men again, husbands and fathers every day, instead of just 75% of the time. The timid mice, whimpering, “Yes, dear,” one-fourth of the time could stand up strong and tall and utter the commanding phrase, “I just want what you want, darling” every single day of every year.
And the pharmaceuticals already exist, it’s just a matter of running clinical trials until the right cocktail, the right dosage, is discovered to put an end to this horrific disease.
Won’t you please give?