I went underwear shopping today, a task I severely despise.
After trying on a few bras that were either so decorative I felt like a confectionery item, or so pleb they could have timewarped from the fifties, I tried on a push-up bra and thought, "Woah! False advertising!"
Seriously, I'd have to be pumping silicon through an IV to achieve that look. Felt like if I turned too fast and clipped a kiddie on the side of the head, I might get pegged with the brain damage incurred...
Please advise all ladies you know, to NOT go shopping when PMSing. Changing room lights are not forgiving, and the three-way mirrors judge every inch of you, I swear it.
"Look at that zit!"
"Ew, gross, doesn't this chick SHAVE?"
"OH----MY----GOD! Make it stop! Make it stop!!"
I seem to have gone from a 34B to a 36C overnight, but that's probably also hormones. I now have reason for my insecurity. It's not me, it's my hormones. I didn't kick that annoying small child in the head; the hormones did it. I didn't just screech at the women talking on her cell phone while driving with her baby in the backseat; the hormones did it.
I've had a crap day. I KNEW I should have stayed in bed and inhaled one chocolate bar after the next. I could've watched a chick flick and proclaimed "That COW! Can you believe she just said that?!" whenever the mean girl came on screen.
I could've watched a period drama and had a single tear trickle dramatically down my cheek when the handsome hero died.
I could've manicured my nails and gleefully admired their brief shiny existence before viciously picking and scratching the enamel off.
But no, I decided to take my rampant hormones out for the day, on a long weekend, to a shopping mall where there are plenty of bright young teenage girls all twittering and giggling; prancing around with their perky little tits that don't even NEED bras.
Guys; Never EVER consider a sex change. Being a women means that for a solid two weeks of every month, we crap on our boyfriends, with, "AAAAAaaaaahhhh!!! Don't look at me! Don't touch me!! I'm disgusting! How can you stand me?!?! I'm a beached whale! I have flab! I have FLAB!! AAAaaaaaahhhhh!!!"
And then we throw tantrums and lock ourselves in the bathroom and some poor chap is left in the wake of this thinking, "The 24hour shop is open. They have chocolate. Must get chocolate. Must end this insanity."
And of course, when this poor bloke is sweet enough to bring the girl chocolate she promptly bursts into tears and proclaims that no-one, in the history of the world, has ever, EVER been this nice to her. And then devours the chocolate with such vehemence that onlookers cringe and avert their eyes.
But I found some tablets, in the pharmacy, hiding behind the middle-aged woman who was looking for that certain bottled something or other that would wipe away the side effects of too many birthdays.
These tablets I found claim that they will cure all insecurity, insomnia, psychological disorders, cramps, bloating, irritability, mood swings, food cravings, breast tenderness, fatigue, anxiety and depression that I suffer through, every month.
If age can find hope in a bottle, then maybe my miracle cure (However much it suspiciously looks and smells like a simple combination of vitamins and fish oil) will at least keep me out of the psychiatric ward.
Wish me luck. It's THAT time of the month again...
