I hate being a woman.
Wonder if I could sell my girlie bits on EBAY: For Sale - fully functional reproductive system hardly used, with corresponding hormones (will not sell separately) - Best offer
I hate being a woman - Yesterday I said I loved it but that’s just the problem with random hormones, you can’t make up your mind because it’s lost or taking a holiday somewhere. Besides yesterday I was wearing a miniskirt and everyone was nice to me; unless you have a Pammy Anderson cup size, jeans make you invisible.
Maybe I’m ugly, maybe jeans make me look fat (hormonal paranoia).
I hate this. You start out having a great day feeling normal, energetic, optimistic even and suddenly you’re Linda Blair with your head spinning round full circles, and some hidden ventriloquist is using you mouth to speak with.
I have an entirely new set of values, opinions, temperament and a whole new personality, to what I had yesterday - this morning even. Do they still do exorcisms? It could be a good idea to get start before the green vomit.
I have matching pimples on each cheek and one coming up on my eyebrow. What sort of a place is that to get a pimple for goodness sake, whoever heard of acne infested brows? It gets better than that; yesterday I was size 10 and today I’m a 16 (Hurrah I've turned into a human form of Luna Park's fat mirrors, what fun).
My stomach and my thighs are like balloons filled with water all squelchy and wobbly and my fingers are like breakfast sausages. I can’t for the life of me get my rings off and when I walk I can almost hear sloshing sounds with each step.
As an added bonus, by mid afternoon my hair will resemble wet seaweed; all this and a bad hair day too - there is no God.
I find myself looking for a filing cabinet around the office that’s tall enough to jump off to any effect.
After ten years my husband knows the drill: move slowly, speak softly and don't approach The Beast. He's like a seasoned lion tamer with a chair in one hand and flowers in the other.
He knows too well, that any sudden moves and this new tenant inhabiting my body,could pick a huge row with him over something frighteningly crucial like: possession of the TV remote, failure to notice a minor change in hairstyle, or failure to read my mind - what’s left of it. Then the aforementioned invading-body-snatcher-type-entity would go into a violent rage and spend the remainder of the evening feeding freshly diced pieces of husband to Mr Blender.
After a decade of survival though, he's proven his expertise as an emotionally erratic wife wrangler, and there’ll be one more man alive tomorrow to enjoy his day on the planet.
Seriously, there’s not been a fun park built yet with a roller coaster ride as scary as my PMS. To get up in the morning, a confident, happy, and reasonably slim person, and miraculously transform into a snivelling, neurotic, bloated, bag of nerves, with face like a pizza and about as stable as the San Andreas Fault.
And don’t even speak to me about natural flaming therapy, Evening Primrose or Star Flower bleeding oil.
I've taken so much of that rubbish, when I pee I leave an oil slick that could devastate the North Atlantic coastline. I'm expecting Greenpeace to show up in my bathroom at any moment.
I want to go to a doctor who says something worthwhile on this like; “go home, consume a small crate of chocolate, and call me in the morning if you’re feeling no better”.
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