I like to believe I am an adorable, unique, precious, unusual unicorn. There is no one like me, the world would forever duller should I disappear. I fart rainbows and fairies dance along side me singing joyful hymns.
Unfortunately, I’ve recently acknowledged that occasionally, I exhibit some fairly stereotypical behaviour. And by occasionally, I mean on a monthly basis when PMSing. During the week preceeding the evacuation of all of my body’s red blood cells, I become a caricature of a hormonal woman.
Case in point:
I was chatting at the gym with a girl who is also single about our hopes and dreams and dating struggles and inevitable cat-less cat-lady destiny. As the conversation progressed, we both became a little emotional – a tad sad. So, we went next door for ice cream, which we scarfed down as we pondered why our lives had passed us by.
I am not making this up. But wait, it gets worse.
I decided to walk home, despite the cloudy skies and occasional drizzle. The weather matched my mood… and so did my playlist. Blank Space, by Taylor Swift – on repeat. Mumford & Sons. Francis Cabrel (for all you non-French speakers, this song is possibly the cheesiest most romantic song EVER. Translated lyrics are here.)
I walked slowly, uncaring of the rain drops on my face. I may have even been so overwhelmed with sadness that I cried as I walked. Luckily nobody witnessed that.
Back at the gym. I’d lost a total of 6lbs of water retention since landing in Montreal on Friday night (I bloat like crazy when I travel). You’d think that would make me feel good, right? WRONG. I felt bloated, and icky. My ovaries were beating their way out of my body. I was fat. No, I was FAT. EVERYBODY STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER, CAN’T YOU SEE I AM FAT?!?!?
In the silence that followed my empassioned plea, I started to giggle. Then I started to cry. Weepy-giggles.
I refuse to write how much chocolate I ate that night.
The list of fighters participating in the boxing tournament this weekend was finally published online. I immediately stalked the girl I’ll be fighting online, relieved to find myself prettier than her. Because that will definitely help me when I fight her, right? Right.
I seriously hope my symptoms subside quickly. I can’t handle my absence of originality much longer.