Isn’t it always the way? Just when you’re seeing the light, something ugly sneaks into your head during the night: PMT. Like my wrinkles, my waistline and my memory, my PMT is getting worse with age. I thought it would recede with my child-bearing capabilities. But no, it’s cranking things up a notch. It’s probably prepping me – deep breath – for menopause. (Nooooooo!). I spend two weeks every month in a hideous blur of emotion, aching boobs and pimples. I want to hide under the bedcovers. Forever. I want to cry. Make that sob, uncontrollably. I rage at Husband that he “doesn’t love me”. I want to hit people (fortunately not the Sprogs, I just yell at them). I am so, so down. I want to drink the wine rack dry. Even the gamey rose. Then there’s the boob situation. I had to hold them during running races with the Sprogs the other day. When I take off my bra at night … yeow! That little drop (she kids herself) feels like I’ve thrown my tits over a cliff and they’ve gone splat at the bottom. All explody, like when I was running late for a breastfeed. Back when I was fecund, not perimenopausal. As for the pimples, there are no words. That’s a lie, there are six words: Pimples at 43? So. Not. Fair.
What’s wrong with the rosé?
Ouch the running in the backyard. I felt that. I know that pain.