30 is just around the corner and I can say with utter certainty there is no sign of my periods easing up as I enter proper adulthood. The little bitch still haunts me, leaving just one week of the month where I feel normal. That’s two weeks of PMT and one week of agonising pain when it finally decides to arrive, usually and rather rudely, late.
The preceding two weeks are filled with clumsiness, anger, tears, a bloated belly and one tell-tale spot appearing centre stage of my forehead like some sort of thermo spot on a frying pan letting me know my body is ready for the pain.
I know I’m not alone, but really? I’m still gonna suffer this shit in my thirties? I think most will agree, the worst part is the waiting. You know it’s going to feel like a million angry Polly Pockets marching over your uterus in spiky Louboutins for four or five days, but the waiting for it? Urgh that’s the worst.
You spend a fortnight devouring every snack, sweet and savoury alike. You find yourself sobbing at commercials and bump into everything – usually fanny first. Last month I wanted to batter everyone in sight with a baseball bat in the middle of a Tesco Express. All these people dilly dallying, trying to put their weekly shop through the self service check out, asking questions about cheese. We’re in bloody Tesco’s you Wankstains! Let me get to the check out and buy my fags!
And whilst you stand there, impatiently queuing, you begin to convince yourself you’re pregnant, despite the fact you’re on every method of birth control known to mankind so by the time you eventually reach the check out (an hour later), you decide it’s absolutely necessary to spend £10.00 on a test that will almost certainly be negative. You then get home, smoke all your fags, eat some chocolate and cry about the fact you’ve spent a tenner on a test.
One thing I have learnt over the years is this: Late for your period? Slip on a pair of white jeans and low and behold it will arrive… Fucking periods.
