You Can’t Dance with the Devil on your back. (So Shake Him Off!)
I am currently wearing tiny, frayed, daisy duke esque, denim shorts on a hot sunny day.
Not only am I wearing tiny, frayed, Daisy Duke esque, denim shorts, that my perfectly hard thighs look simply marvellous in, obviously, but I am also of course sporting bright white roller skates.
I am, in case you havent already guessed, also elegantly weaving my way, like a ballerina on wheels, around a basket ball court singing the lyrics to the 90’s classic ‘Its my life’ by Dr Alban.
Isn’t this what we all do when we get our period?
Ok, so I know im a bit late (10 years too late) to weigh in on that particular hair brain of an advert for Tampax, but … well…
I’m irritated, aggrieved and bloated.
And so if I wanna stomp around in my frayed, primark, denim shorts, my dimpled, flabby thighs sticking together causing what can only be described as rub burn, stumbling about all over the place on Addison’s roller skates in the living room, looking more like Daisy Duck than Daisy bloody Duke… then I will.
And so help you god if you try and stop me.
I have beef this month.
‘Lexy, you seem irritated’ my kind and beautiful souled therapist mentioned yesterday. ‘You are telling me you are fine, and yes, I can see the smile plastered on your face, you are positively all eyes and teeth today, but ooo, I don’t know.. Beneath it there seems to be some sort of anger? Something lurking? Would I be right?’
‘Ok’ he sits back, disbelieving my forced conviction, and fair play to him too.
After 12 long minutes of confluent stubborn silence I erupt.
‘Gina ford is a total idiot, the Tampax advert from the 1990’s was clearly created by a man and on what level is it ‘ok’ to comment on something you have no experience in? Tell me James. Tell me!’
‘Ok, so let’s start at the beginn….’ he tries to finish, leaning forward, a rue smile playing on his lips, before I rudely interrupt him, the irritation gaining momentum as it starts to roll down hill , towards the mental hospital inpatient admission forms.
‘Who wears roller skates when they are on their period? Who gets out of bed, realises they have come on, and reaches for roller skates? And who the hell is Dr Alban to tell me it’s my life?? I know it’s my life!! These bloody doctors, And she doesn’t even have kids! There she goes, going on about how I was supposed to have catapulted myself back on to the Irish one’s willy after 4 weeks, but seriously James, what does she know about torn rectum’s?’
‘I er, …’ he tries again, shifting in his seat.
‘Also, you know those new mental health adverts where the guy picks up his shoe and starts talking in to it when that bloke in the office asks how he is? Well that annoys me too, these adverts created by idiots are annoying the hell out of me!!’ I slap the side rest on my chair, excentuating my point, and lean back, glaring at him.
This time, he senses the pause, and says nothing. Wise man that he is.
‘People in work, keep asking me how I am ‘Howwww areeee youuuuu?’ before tilting their heads to the side, and clearly, they don’t want to believe me when I say ‘fine thanks’ like a normal person, as clearly, CLEARLY, they are simply gagging for me to pick up my damn shoe and start singing ‘if you like Pina colada’ in to it, to prove I am actually mental and not just ‘faking!!!’ So it’s not enough to be miserable anymore, I have to start moon-walking on my desk too? Or maybe arriving in the office with a drum kit and a pet fish in my mouth? Give me a break! How in the hell are those adverts breaking the stigma?’
‘Yeah I never thought of them from that perspec…’
‘And another thing, who the hell does she think she is, to tell me I’m supposed to have sex after six weeks, when she doesn’t even know what its like?’
‘Who are we talking about now?’ he interrupts.
‘Come on James, keep up. Gina Ford obviously. Do you know what I was doing at six weeks past my son’s birthday, the time that I now usually refer to as the anniversary of the apocalypse?’
‘I have a feeling you are going to tell me.’
‘You are right James, I am! I was sterilizing bottles and emptying my boobs in to a salad bowl!! A salad bowl!!! At what point was I supposed to have said ‘hang on babe, ill just drain this last litre of milk and then ill ride you like a cow girl WOO WOOO!!! While swinging my size 18 maternity pants around above my head in joy!! Does she actually think The Irish one would have wanted to shag me too? Did she not think of that? I looked like a limping moose with a crispy set of udders banging about my knees! And what if he had said no? How would that have made me contenter? My non- existent self esteem would have been 6 feet under! That woman needs locking up!’ I spit.
‘Yes! And who the hell do the MAYANS think they are? They tell us that the world is supposed to end on the 21st of December, well I’m not being funny but when I spoke to the Natwest and applied for a credit card they basically asked me why, so I was honest. I told them ‘The apocolypse is coming!’ because If the world is gonna end on the 21st of December then why not? Why shouldnt I get in more debt? And you know what James? I got the damn card! And so I told The Irish one to use it to book us a holiday to Disney World.’
‘That’s great, so that’s a good thing. When do you go?’
‘HE BOOKED IT FOR THE 26TH OF DECEMBER JAMES! We will have been dead 5 days!!!’
‘Ah. But you know that the chances of the Mayans being right are impossible and…’
‘So now I’m refusing to pay the minimum payment on the card, cos what’s the point? The Irish one can pay it. Also how DARE she call her book HOW to be contented? So because I wasn’t content in the first year, I have to feel even guiltyer for that? And does she really HONESTLY think if I had jumped back on the Irish one’s rope ladder, then I would have been MORE content? LET ME TAKE A PAIR OF SCISSORS TO YOUR BUM HOLE THEN TELL YOU HOW TO BE CONTENT WHILE ENDURING A LARGE MAN FILLED OBJECT BEING SHOVED UP YOUR FLUTE!!….’ I take a deep breath, slowly running out of steam, and smile shakily.
‘Yes! Gina ford. …But….. you know, other than that I’m fine. Really I am.’
After a healthy silence, a silence I use to catch my breath and look out of the window, he leans forward.
‘Could this have anything to do with it being Mother’s day on Sunday?’
‘Nope.’ I respond, still staring out of the window.
‘So, this year, you deserve to be celebrated for what an incredible mother you are?’ He asks disbelieving my conviction and fair enough to him too.
‘You know James, when I come on my period I reach for the chocolate, it took 4 months before I let the Irish one even suggest sex, let alone even wave his dip stick my way, and as far as being mental goes, I don’t think I need to talk in to my shoe, do you?’
‘So you see, I ain’t ‘media’ perfect, but I deserve to be celebrated.’
‘So this year, yes, I will be enjoying it. I will do everything in my power to ward off the feelings of guilt.’
‘Good for you.’
Happy mothers day to all the UNCONTENT (and incontinent) mothers, who may or may not be mental, who may or may not have ‘baby in a strict routine’, and who may or may not go roller skating instead of using a sanitary towel. And most importantly, Happy Mothers Day to all those mothers who didn’t get back on the ‘magic wand’ (the wand of dreams, as the Irish one calls it) until they were ready/ couldnt listen to any more begging off their men, and not a moment before.
Happy mothers day to all the mothers, who adore thier monsters, no matter what state their particles have been left in.
You are precious.
I think I need an arthroscopy, rollerskating with a poodle knocking about, did not end well.