First off - this is not a blog posting for the chaps in the ranks, so look away now if the discussion of blood loss makes you feel wobbly. Although - if you have any sense, lads - you WILL read this and perhaps be more sympathetic to your own Goddess when she's got her monthlies.
I am typing this to you from atop several folded towels where I am perched like a very angry crow, cawing irritatedly at Sonshine and Hubby. Both of whom have been slinking around silently in the shadows for the past couple of days like caterpillars who don't want to be pecked to death.
Yes folks, I'm at the Time of Life when the Time of the Month fairy seems to have taken up permanent residence at my house and, as a result, I seem to be in a constant state of either pre-mentrual or post-menstrual stress.
My usually long and hard-to-light fuse has been cut to a scant 2" and woe-betide anyone who sets light to that blue touch-paper. Be warned, setting light to that paper can involve something as innocent as asking me if I want a coffee...or a million pounds.
I've adopted a whole load of new vocabulary of vitreol to make the experience much more satisfying - at least from my point of view. Here's one I can share with you: 'feculant'. Thank you Fifie :-)
Slotted between the pre- and the post-menstrual moodiness/urge to inflict violence is the REALLY awful bit. My monthlies have taken on tsunami proportions and it's deeply upsetting and disconcerting.
Instead of lasting about a week and being rather delicate and mainly unobtrusive, like a well-behaved Head Girl - my monthlies have transformed into a 4-day splat-fest with about as much subtlety as a Vegas Elvis impersonator.
Without a word of a lie (honestly!) going out for coffee has become impossible. I need access to a loo every 30 minutes to prevent, um, leakage. Sitting in the one position for too long can result in real unpleasantness which did, once, reduce me to tears.
But the nights are worst. Remember that scene in the Godfather where the millionaire race-horse owner wakens up with his horse's head in the bed? Well, THAT's my nights. So I end up feeling knackered AND with that constant simmering anger just bubbling away beneath the surface.......
I feel so sorry for Sonshine and Hubby who periodically (ha!) discover this pecking harridan lurking in their midst instead of the usual even-tempered, Hestia.
The Doctor has assured me that this all quite normal and that this is NOT yet the menopause, this is only the peri-menopause. And it could go on like this for YEARS.
Woopee-fecking-do. There's a result. Not.
I have developed a theory though.
I think that the Gods have given us the peri-menopause so that we are so bloody (pardon the pun) grateful for the cessation of hostilities in the knicker department that we embrace the bloodless coup of the menopause open-armed and with white trousers once again restored to our wardrobes.
And, with that thought, I'm off to buy some liver and stout.......
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