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 am so, so down.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 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.
It started when I sent a 6.30am message to DD following our first RSVP “date,” pondering where we should go for our second rendezvous.
I’m an early riser, so 6.30am felt like lunchtime and perfectly acceptable.
DD, on the other hand, was quite startled to be woken at 6.30am by a text from a virtual stranger/mad redhead.
But he soon got with the program.
This is how he describes it:
Tuesday – Alana awake – RSVP newbie decides to text at 6.30am
6.31am: Optus notices spike on North Shore
9am: Optus has crisis meeting and borrows bandwidth from Telstra
Midday: Alana’s ex-husband gets automated warning from the “cloud” saying capacity has been exceeded and thinks “Thank God, she’ll be blogging about someone else now.”
That night, after texting maniacally all day, we had our first voice-to-voice phone chat.
A major storm hit Sydney as we spoke – I think it was probably caused by heat between phone towers from the “machine gun” rate of texting we’d done … made worse by texts overtaking each other, queries, counter queries, explanations …