There is a certain time of the month, you know the one I mean, where my skin erupts in a hormonal rage and goes on a rampage across my face, leaving a trail of angry red spots in its wake.
Coincidentally, this is around the same time of the month that the Greek God(zilla) tends to give me a wider berth for fear of me bursting into tears, or unleashing a chain of 4-letter expletives on him if he so much as dares to ask me if I fancy a cup of tea.
Or so he says.
I do not remember it being the offer of the tea that is so offensive, rather the comment that precedes it.
For there is nothing more irritating, at that time of the month, than being asked “is it that time of the month?”.
Even when it is.
Especially when it is.
It being that ‘time of the month’ is not always the go-to explanation whenever I question why there are wet towels on the bedroom floor, or worn socks dangling on the arm of the sofa.
Some things are just annoying ALL.MONTH.LONG. I just choose not to mention them all month long.
Nor is it advisable to politely enquire whether it is that time of the month when I devour a family pack of Roast Chicken flavour Tyrrells in one sitting.
This will make me want to empty the second pack all over your head.
Turn a blind eye to the fact that I am donning ‘leisure wear’ for the second day running, and if I do change out of my pyjamas to go to Sainsbury’s or on the school run, do not tell me I look nice. This is not the time to start paying attention to what I am wearing.
Also, if I cry during Eastenders/The Voice/Made in Chelsea or while reading Red magazine, drop the eye roll. It means the same thing.
The thing is, I am now 40.
My hormonal levels are changing. My body is throwing them out all over the place like an end of season sale.
It may be that time of the month at the moment, but it will not be long before we are dealing with that time of life.
Which from what I have heard, will have you wistfully thinking back to the good old days of PMS like they were a mere walk in the park.
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