I have always been a wittering stress head, more comfortable neck deep in anxiety and pressure, whether imagined or not (mostly imagined). If I could visualise ten outcomes to a situation I would work hard in a Tourette’s fashion, to imagine another ten, all with disastrous outcomes and all my fault. When by circumstance one of the disastrous outcomes came to pass, I would proclaim ” I knew it!” and become convinced of my psychic power and gut instincts (all twenty of them). My company must have been extremely tedious at times and I cringe when I think of my twatness.
An unfortunate by product of my new found awareness is that I now can’t abide it in other people. My intolerance has grown in proportion to my inner calm, or so I thought. The problem I have been having lately with this, apart from skin that would make the Singing Detective reach for the Petroleum Jelly, is for a few days each month I find myself at the complete mercy of an emotional and hysterical bitch that sets up shop in my peri menopausal and increasingly large pored noggin. It knocks me sideways. I am literally thrown back into those heady and powerful pubescent years of emotional torture, angst and Judy Blume. Once more I am tearful, psychotic and as anxious as an overweight, lumpy forty year old woman trapped in a public swimming pool with a drop dead ex whilst really, really needing a wee………are you with me??
This damn middle aged phenomenon that has strong echoes of teenage beginnings seems such a cruel blow. It heralds a shrivelling and dehydrating that is as final as it is chafing. At least when we were young it held the promise of much pertness and endless adventure. Now all it promises is forgetting why you came in here in the first place and finding pubic hair on your toes……
I read today that Zoe Ball has said that at 46 years of age she is officially in the menopause and plans to counteract it’s effects by having lot’s of sex. Is she mad???? My plan to counteract it’s effects involve this chocolate fondant and my pyjamas.