When PMS unleashes its monthly fury, fuelling my insecurities to chomp extra efficiently at my self esteem, there are only two things that keep me away from royally screwing up my life.
One of them is to fervently study the Property pages of the Classifieds in The Star and iproperty and make urgent appointments to view anything vaguely interesting, especially if they are way beyond my budget. Property is sexy and it gets me going. I love looking at homes, imagining how to live in them and how my life would be if I did. Of course, there is also a downside to this because inevitably, when you fall in love with a home that is beyond your budget, you eventually get to the part where you realise that no matter how interest rates may fall, that 6 bedroom mansion with the Balinese pool is way out of your league (and interest rates are not falling anymore). Then you find yourself even more depressed than when you began.
Reeling from emotion and inability to afford anything more than a shack (well, not really but we are prone to exaggeration when we PMS), I tend to at this point start reaching for the booze. Thankfully, this avenue is offering less and less comfort, with a hangover creeping up on me after one beer. I get groggy and just want to go bed, wishing for the blanket of sleep to overwhelm - which I suppose is an effective way of dealing with PMS.
The most pleasant way of keeping the blues at bay, is to turn to my friends and family, the latter of whom I am so connected to despite our love/hate relationships (like any normal dysfunctional family) that they fall into the friend category. I love spending time with them and when that is not possible, a round of SMS, ping or Gmail messaging or at more desperate times, a good tearful phone call, serves as a row of twinkling tealights guiding me away from the darkness and onto the right path again. I am intensely grateful to God for placing these people in my life and I cannot imagine one without them for the happiness and relief they offer me. I really do have good friends. Furthermore, I am so lucky that I have a good handful - I get to unload several rounds of shit without them even realising how I am totally using them for this filthy job of dealing with my mountains of excrement. Whilst others may be able to afford the 6 bedroom house with Balinese pool, I have mates who make my life so much richer by just being there.
So this month, as I bloat away moodily, drinking my Tiger on ice - alone - at home - I am also booking an Istanbul holiday with my sister. So it's not so bad after all, is it?