For years I have fought to stabilise my moods. Vitamins, supplements, obsessive exercise, positive visualisations; you name it. Nothing seems to work, however. Now, in my fortieth year, I have decided to lay down the gauntlet and allow my glorious, all-powerful hormones to reign in their rightful seat as Master (or Mistress) of Moods.
For the greater part of my cycle I am upbeat, kind, empathic, fun to be around and fairly productive. Who wouldn’t want to extend the shelf-life of this euphoric phase? The house is organised and ambient. Delicious meals are planned and presented on a daily basis. Clothes are lovingly laundered, organised into systematic ‘people piles’ before being swiftly ushered into their designated hanging spaces. Pets and children are kept meticulously clean in their respective environments; well stimulated and loved.
With the arrival of day twenty-four of my cycle, however, this fun-loving, health conscious lover of domesticity is punctually abducted. Something dark and dangerous is dumped in her place. This she-beast is outraged by the displacement. She rampages through orderly cupboards in search of chocolate and wine. Innocuous things arouse instant vehemence; the angle of her husband’s head and shoulders as he addresses her (she will not tolerate disrespect), the lack of texts in her in-box (clearly her ‘friends’ do not give a damn about her life), Cold-callers who knock confidently at her door only to back off in fear when presented with the look in her other-worldly eyes (do I look like the kind of freak who spends her days contemplating replacement fascias and guttering?!)
Over the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours the beast’s anger hisses out like hot water from an underground geyser, until all is spent. What remains is an empty, tiny voice somewhere in her consciousness, speaking of loneliness, desolation and infinite sadness.
Picture this forlorn figure amid the crowded audience of her eldest daughter’s school talent show. She gravely watches on as teenage girls sing their hearts out in fake American accents. She shakes her head as they self-consciously cover imaginary tummies for want of anything better to do with their arms (Oh, poor innocent darlings, venturing out into the cruel world with such trust and hope; without even a notion of how big their tummies are really going to get!) Great fat mascara infused tears paint tracks to her reddened nose. “What?” asks her husband incredulously, noticing her tears. She does not answer. She cannot. She strokes his hand sadly instead…
Had the talent show have been scheduled for a week, or even a couple of days later, the mother in the audience would have displayed another attitude entirely. A genuine clap and a smile for the cute ones. The odd cringe at the inappropriately provocative outfits. A sneaky look at the watch to approximate the length of time between now and her next g & t…
And then, miraculously, magically, it is all over for another few weeks. Supermum is back! Pleasant wife reinstated with mascara unsmudged and sense of despair evaporated.
So now, as the beginning of my fifth decade looms ever closer, I am driven to ask; is it so bad? I am inconsistent, but consistently so. Would we appreciate the beauty of the moon so well if it were forever stuck in the same phase? (The moon? Oh, that boring old crescent!) Perhaps we would not. As with the seasons of the year, the benefits of each phase can be appreciated more fully when contrasted with what has gone before.
Lunar ladies, I beseech you, go with your menstrual flow!
