***reader, beware – this post comes from a suburb of emo called PMS – please do not read if you don’t wish to be polluted with the self-pity of a hormonal, nearly-middle-aged woman***

in exactly 23 days, i will turn 35.  half way to seventy.  honestly?  i’m not at all sure how i feel about this.

i feel so unattractive today.

i’ve been feeling unattractive for a couple of weeks, actually.  particularly this last week.  i know, i know – having a stinking cold does not help one’s looks, nor the inner spark that never fails to override the beauty standard (which i try so very, very hard not to believe in, because i know it’s untrue, but social conditioning implants things so deeply).

*pauses to turn off the radio, as Terry Wogan, who is generally inoffensive, but irritating me today – can’t focus my thoughts*

…where was i?  oh, yes – feeling unattractive.

so my period is due in a couple of days, my skin is mottled and pale and greasy and spotty, i’m starting to feel bloated and sluggish, and my emotions are starting their monthly rollercoaster ride through the land of emo, and my libido has crashed and burned.

sekseh, no?


only a few weeks ago, hubby unexpectedly turned to me and told me how pretty he thought i looked that day.  i don’t get compliments very often, and this one was almost like a choir of angels singing in my head, since it was from the one man who i want to look good for (which is difficult, since he rarely expresses an opinion about any aspect of my attire or makeup, other than to say “it’s all right”, if presed).  it’s always lovely to get compliments or admiring looks, but his are the only ones that matter to me, and they’re very, very hard won, and usually completely unexpected.  he really gives very little of a shit what i look like, but i still want to be attractive to him physically.  especially now i am approaching middle age (eep!), gaining wrinkles and grey hair at an alarming rate, and am no longer the pretty, buxom thing i was at nineteen (when we met).  honestly, again, i don’t know what he sees in me.  but he clearly thinks there’s something there worth sticking around for, so there you go.  it’s a confidence thing.  i usually have little or none when something really matters to me.  hubris terrifies me.

and just FYI, i’m writing this with self-pitying, hormone-drenched tears rolling slowly down my cheeks, sniffling occasionally.  i can practically smell the oestrogen, even with a blocked nose…

fuck this.  i want a cigarette and a good cry.  not necessarily in that order.