By AMY STOCKWELL
Dear My Body –
We’ve been together for a while, so I figured that it’s time that we had a talk.
Our life together has been pretty good, hasn’t it?
I take you out for dinner. I take you for walks. I buy you pretty things.
And yet, there is that one issue between us that just won’t go away.
You see, once a month, you seem to hate my guts.
You begin by banging on my abdomen a march of imminent doom. You make my belly poke out (more than usual) and give it a very unfriendly stabbing.
Not content with owning my lower body, you invade my brain. You squeeze my temples and poke out my eyes. You have encouraged some kind of evil conspiracy between my head and my stomach that means that for every throb of my head, my tummy takes a spin.
You invite in a hideous rage that can be triggered at any time by the entirely inconsiderate nature of public transport, the unreasonable expectation that I might need to queue for something, or the temerity of someone who is rude enough to look at me.