So I'm not sure that I have that many male blog readers and if I have then they may want to perhaps not read this as it's a bit of a girly type subject. It's all about the hormones you see and the fact that too many or too few or just a strange mix of them can reduce us females to quivering wrecks.Once a month some women can turn from calm cool and collected creatures into psycho axe wielding maniacs and god help the more fesity amongst us females who are never calm cool and collected in the first place ( like myself ) and OH EM GEE SISTA - don't get me started on the M word. And if any men are reading this - M is for menopause.
I shall therefore refer to a couple of the key words and phrases by intital just to make it more reader friendly. We all know what the M means and I think we can all guess what TOTM and P means too, so please keep up!
I am infact, a quivering wreck most of the time anyway. Do not be fooled by the jolly facade, most of the time I am a right miserable cow and I cry almost every day and this is prior to my current stress and depression and if I am being brutally honest ( which I hope to be in my writings ) then I think that I always have had a daily weep just for the hell of it. I'm not sure that this means that I am never happy because I am occassionally, I just like a good old screech, wail, sniffle, sob to let my emotions flow, so as to speak. Every 28 days this is worse than normal. And now I am 45 - well , I'm not quite sure what to expect.
Fluffy kittens? Cute puppies? Sad stories on the news? Finding that the loo roll in the bathroom has run out and nobody has replaced it? Someone being nasty? Someone being nice? yes they will reduce us all to blubbering idiots and god help anyone that questions why we are behaving like that.
TTOTM ( P ) is a pain in the arse. No matter how many calenndars I write its' imminent arrival on, it still always makes me think ''oh that explains it'' when it marches brazenly into my week. I am now 'of that age' so I am sort of guessing that the fruitful time of my life will be drawing to a close and the era of a particularly nasty does of the hormone may appear to throw me off balance when the monthly P evolves into its' nastier big sister M.
I remember when my own mother went through the M and thinking she should really get a grip. I was a teenager at the time so my thoughts very rarely strayed beyond my next potential snog / perm / packet of 10 bensons / bottle of woodpecker / flavoured lipgloss etc, and teenagers ( as I well know ) aren't best known for their caring and sensitive nature so am sure that I was a right bitch at the best of times.
Dear Mother, you don't have the internet but if you did and you read this then can I apologise?
Last week my friend ( we'll call her D ) and I went to another friend's house in a taxi and about 2 minutes into the journey we were wilting like damp lettuces in the back. We joked and we laughed and we fanned our faces and looked at each other and then admitted defeat and asked the driver to whack the air-con on.
The first thing I have learnt about the M - air con makes no difference whasoever. I think we may even accused the driver of simple switching on a sound button that went 'RRRRRRRRRRRR' because if there was any air flowing through the back of that cab then it sure as hell made no difference to our florid and moist complexions. I will bear this in mind for any future adventures.
Facial hair is also apparently a big growl in the world of the M and apart from the odd little wisp that may appear here and there on my jaw I am quite hair free so I am totally dreading looking like a member of ZZ Top. Put it this way, the sales of Veet in St Ives will soar.
With the monthly P - well despite the adverts and the media hype, I have yet to go sky diving or to frollick in white pants around one of our many beaches. The reality is that I just want to howl ( even more than normal) and perhaps knife the odd passer by. Oh and chocolate is good too but with the success of my non diet attitude I have curtailed my chompings so every cloud has a silver lining and all that . And the saddest part of the P is the short term memory we all adopt when it's over. We forget all about our mood swings, temper tantrums and near death experiences only to be starkly reminded 3 bloody ( no pun intended) weeks later.
So to clarify to all you wimmin out there and to any of you ultra sensitive men that have seen this blog through.....bear with us every 4 weeks and maybe avoid us when we hit our mid 40's, until you see us with a packet of HRT in our hands or 'something from the health shop'.
If we have beards, don't pass comment but if we are wearing any form of smocks or jesus sandals along with said natural remedies clutched in our sweaty hands - feel free to tell us to man up!