Girls have periods.
They’re natural, we don’t choose to have them. Much like men have to deal with excessive body hair and morning erections, periods come in the same girl package as boobs and a vajayjay. Lets get over that first and foremost and try not to get offended that I’m talking about it on the internet.
I don’t know any girl who actively welcomes her time of the month (or Aunt “Flow” if you’re Charlotte from Sex and the City). I suppose for some its a reason to do the “I’m not pregnant!” dance (we’ve all been there at one point or another, right?) and for those who aren’t having sex its a reminder that it doesn’t matter if you’re on or if you’re not on, because you still aren’t having sex. Soz.
This monthly cycle seems to come around quicker than you can say Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and along with the obvious ickyness that comes with your period (YES THERE’S BLOOD. SHOCK) there’s also some unwanted side effects that plague me every month:
I become irrationally angry about anything and everything. The smallest things stress me out even more than they usually would do, and I can be found sending one word stroppy texts and hanging up the phone mid call more often than I usually would. This often leaves me returning to the scene of the crime a few days later with my tail between my legs.
I’m overly emotional. I’m not going to lie to you, one PMS fuelled evening I was lay on the sofa feeling sorry for myself, when I suddenly developed a craving for sweet potato, hummus and rocket. I threw on my coat and ran* (*walked quickly) to the shop, minus make up and bra, only to find that the shop had sold out of sweet potatos. And I welled up. Over sweet potato. With my meal of choice absolutely ruined by the CoOps inability to stock vegetables correctly, I slammed my rocket and hummus on a nearby shelf, stropped home and went to bed hungry because in my eyes, my entire evening was ruined. With this in mind, the usual sob inducing films/TV programmes/music are completely out of bounds (absolutely NO Taylor Swift) and I even find myself sobbing whilst watching adverts – that “Nah, you’re alright” McDonalds one? FLOORED ME.
My sleep pattern is interrupted. I’m a hot sleeper anyway, I prefer to sleep in the nude (ooerr) not for any sexy reason, just because if I wear pyjamas I tend to wake up all twisted inside my pyjama bottoms. During that lovely time of the month I find myself waking up every hour on the hour, tossing and turning and then eventually falling asleep half an hour before my alarm goes off. Ta mother nature, not even Collection Lasting Perfection concealer can hide those bags.
You can’t go swimming without feeling self concious. & I don’t even go swimming. It’s just the thought that if I WANTED to go swimming I couldn’t go because it would bring me out in a hot sweat and leave me stressing – see point number 1 about becoming irrationally angry about small things.
Those crippling pains that make you feel like you want to climb inside a magicians box and have him saw you in half, for real. It’s not even just the stomach pains – they’re bad enough on their own, but combine this with the dull aching pain that plague your legs and it leaves me sitting at my desk at work doubled up in pain and wondering whether I’d be missed if I went to lay on the floor of the ladies toilets while wailing in pain.
I want to eat everything – more so than usual. Anything comforting makes a bee line for my mouth. Pasta, cheese, ice cream, custard – and my personal “comfort food” meal of … mashed potato fort, tinned chopped tomatoes and grated cheese. I’m certain I gain at least a stone during each time of the month.
I tell you what makes me angry about periods (not irrationally, AND I feel angry about this all month long though) – and thats how we have to pay for sanitaryware such as tampons/towels/mooncups – name your poison. I know those monthly buys don’t break the bank and I’d rather pay for the privelage than go without, but considering condoms and lube are given away willy nilly (see what I did there) its a little frustrating that women are expected to foot that bill.
Did I share a little too much there? Oops, my bad.