You’d think at almost-45 there would be less questions, but there seem to be more. Like …
Why I found myself standing at a bus stop at 9.30pm last night for 40 minutes while buses to every other far-flung suburb of Sydney pulled up but mine.
Why I had to pay to get my car un-impounded instead of having dinner at a nice restaurant with my work colleagues.
Why I didn’t give up sooner on the bloody bus coming and just pay the $26.50 cab fare.
Why I always forget about the bridge toll I’ll have to pay on top exorbitant cab fares.
Why I can spot European tourists at bus stops at 50 paces. Is it the chain smoking, the ugly sandals or the cameras around their necks?
Why men approaching 60 in suits are so stuffy and sexist.
Why I always forget that drinking two glasses of wine and not eating will make my mouth feel all icky and watery and my stomach feel all morning sicky.
Why I never remember that picking my lipstick off and eating it will make the feeling worse … Or that wearing sneakers without socks will make my feet stinky … Or that eating Mars Bar slice for afternoon tea will not lead to weight loss … Or that sparkly nail polish looks like a fun idea but is totally impossible to get off … (yep, all the big, stuff)
And why it all makes me so incredibly shitty.
It can’t be because I have PMT.
BECAUSE PMT DOESN’T EXIST
Fark those farking Canadian researchers.