I'm a very tactile, loving person. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my emotions are constantly bubbling underneath the surface.
I feel things very deeply. If I like you, I love you. If you bore me or are a bit of a twerp, you may as well be dead to me. Harsh but true.
I cry quite a few times a week, sometimes for no apparent reason, just a bit of an emotional aerobics, I suppose. If my friends are going through bad times, I'll often cry on my own thinking about them.
Or, that bit at the end of Little Mermaid when King Triton paints Ariel a rainbow and she says softly: "I love you Daddy." Cue Alex in bits on the floor, mascara rivers stylishly ingrained on my blotchy face.
My point is this: I am not your typically uptight, emotionally retarded Brit. I feel extremely at home in the company of fiery, unpredictable people driven by instinct and emotion - for I understand it.
But lately, travelling on the London Underground has led me to question myself. Am I really that comfortable with emotion when it's being demonstrated in a public manner? Or are my miniature disasters only acceptable if it's me, on my own, snivelling into a bag of pretzels?
I was prompted to ask these questions after the last few times I've travelled on the tube. I've been working in Crawley, West Sussex since I started my fabulous new job as a feature writer two weeks ago, but often use the tube to go in and out of London to meet friends.
I went armed with all the usual pre-conceptions northerners hold about travelling on the underground - in fact, about 'that there London' more generally.
"You could fall over in t'street and no-one would look twice at yer..."
"Don't make eye contact with anyone; just bury yer 'ed in t'paper..."
"Not very friendly them Londoners, are they?"
But astonishingly, I found myself to be the frigid, stony faced traveller, while everyone else on the tube journeys I made indulged in my ultimate pet hate...PDA (Public Displays of Affection).
This is not because I'm bitter and single. I've been in plenty of relationships, and I've also been single for over a year now. I know how it is when you first fall in love and feel the need to lick each other's face every now and again.
But DON'T do it in public! It's sooooo cliched and embarrassing for everyone else! Love is definitely a kind of madness, and this becomes clear when you look at people biting each other's noses playfully, kissing each other's fingers, nibbling earlobes and - I kid you not - central line mid July - ADMINISTERING LOVEBITES.
Keep it to yourself, please! Surely these things will be more special and intimate if you do them behind closed doors, away from my horrified eyes and gossipy blog.
So please, everyone. Do what you want between the sheets. But spare me the sight of your foreplay. It's very unclassy.
Off to Marbella for four days now. Bye! x
Thursday 20 August 2009
Monday 10 August 2009
Welcome to the Oestrogen Lounge
If you're a bloke, look away now. This is strictly a women only zone.
The most bizarre, wonderful and yet erratic day prompts me to write this blog, just as I'm back from the gym where I've been trying to burn out some of my PMT.
Yes, lads, that's right. I AM going to go there. Premenstrual tension. I have it in abundance.
I'm quite lucky with my 'monthly miseries', as periods go. I don't really get stomach cramps or sickness, which some of my friends do. How they stagger out of bed to work each month is a wonder.
However, although I don't get pains in my stomach, I get them pretty much everywhere else.
My skin erupts into a volcanic, pizza-esque fury that no amount of Touche Eclat can cover up.I feel plump and bloated - there's a picture on some Tube lines of a woman wearing a rubber ring, with the implication that she is suffering from water retention. I can confirm that it feels horrible.
I also develop a sort of waddle when I'm due on - kind of how pregnant women walk, except I'm not pregnant (that's the whole point). Periods are a cruel reminder that you are, for now, a million miles away from being in a position to bring a child into the world.
Not that I want a child yet. In fact, at this point in my life, it's probably my worst nightmare. But every month, I just think: "Ah, yes. Not only am I only just able to look after my neurotic, twenty-something self. But this is nature's way of saying I'm barren, too. I'll never find a bloke. I'm fat, ugly and despicable. AAAAAGH!"
Every little negative thing seems worse. Not just worse, but DREADFUL. I tend to lose perspective, and get panicky about things that really do not matter (like whether you packed a spoon to eat your yoghurt with at lunchtime. Who gives a toss? you wonder. Me, when I turn into a walking hormone).
Sometimes, when you're single, alone in a bedsit, with nothing but Sunday's issue of Fabulous to keep you company and a heady mix of hormones racing round your body, this is enough to tip you over the edge.
EVERYTHING seems worse when you're due on. The slightest thing can set you on edge and make you want to weep/punch things. Any man who thinks I'm over-exaggerating quite simply does not know what he's talking about. You have never been through it; therefore, you will shut up and listen.
Once, when approaching that delightful time of the month, I was in the shower and the curtain kept wrapping round my leg. I was furious, and close to tears. Why couldn't it just leave me alone? Normally it would only be vaguely annoying, or even funny, but I honestly felt defeated and on the verge of snapping. Scary.
Or you'll have your iPod on shuffle, and the haunting strains of Sinead O'Connors 'Nothing Compares 2U' seep into your consciousness before you have time to quickly flick to another track. You're in bits, and it hasn't even got to the "It's been seven hours...." opening wail. It's pitiful.
The final straw for me was when my lovely boss and editor, Sally, bought her scrumptious daughter Ruby into the office last week to show her where Mummy worked.
Ruby got upset because it was a strange place/she'd just woken up/she was developing toothache. Sally was so lovely with her, cuddling her closely and playing see-saw, Marjorie Door, across the table until Ruby's little face lit up with love and happiness.
You guessed it. The tears were pricking behind my eyelids, and I had to give myself a QUICK talking to.
Why was I crying? Well, it's anything that touches any sort of emotion in you. When you're approaching 'that time', these emotions are felt with a peculiar, white-heat sort of intensity - well, they are with me, anyway.
My tummy like a rubber ring, my skin red and blotchy and my hormones causing me to weep at love scenes between Roy and Hayley, I'm a bit of a liability around the 10th of each month. Tears, tantrums, yes. Teasing, no. If you make fun of Alex while she is like this, Alex will cry. At you. Ardently.
By the end of the whole thing, I'm usually musing two things quite strongly. 1) All this to have children? And 2) They'd better be worth it!
Sally assures me they are. I guess I'll have to wait and see.
Ah, Sally. That brings me to the next part of the blog. The oestrogen lounge that was the Famous Features office today. That's right, I have a job, working permanently for Sally, who used to be my freelance editor. So far, I am absolutely loving it. Yes, I love the work I do, which always helps. But the people I work with really make it special.
The new Famous Features office consists of three people: Sally, Gareth and I. It's a fabulous, close-knit environment, and I sort of feel like Sally and Gareth are my older brother and sister. They look out for me, help me - and I pester Gareth for help with computer stuff in a little-sister sort of way. It's loads of fun, and I am delighted that this is the job I have ended up with.
Today, though, it was just Sally and I in the office, as Gareth was having his car MOT'd. And guess what. Both of us were premenstrual. Not only that, but we realised after invasive questioning on both sides that we both took our last Pill yesterday, and both take the same kind of Pill.
Do you understand what this means? Basically, today we merged into the same nightmare hormone. Our cycles are synchronised - this is augmented by the fact that we even take the same Pill.
Well, what a day we had! We talked and talked (in between writing and selling hard-hitting features, of course), about loves, hates, laughter, disappointments and difficult times.
It was a no-holds barred, inherently feminine atmosphere. We were, as Sally later text me (we both reflected on the day with incredulity) like two balls of cosmic hormonal energy bouncing off each other.
She'd fill up with tears, and just about get a hold of it. Then I would. Then we both would. Somehow we each managed to hold back from actually sitting on the floor, doing some PMT busting yoga and scoffing Maltesers. We held it together. We held each other together.
I'm pretty sure that had I been successful in any of the other jobs I'd applied for up to now, my day would have been a lot different. I would have done a lot of face-scrunching, swift trips to the loo to have a quick, cleansing sob (it's hormones, I can't help it, a pox on anyone who says otherwise) and eaten a hell of a lot more chocolate.
But I was at least comforted by the fact that Sally was going through the same thing. She, in turn, was marvellously supportive.
We both traversed each other's highs and lows. I bemoaned my complexion, she bemoaned hers. I clung to her during my blood sugar's see-sawing - she was comforted by my proffering of chocolate during a difficult and sensitive phone call she took.
No matter how feminism has changed over the decades, I think there's something about women helping other women through a process that's as old as the hills (this doesn't make it any easier) that truly captures what feminism is about.
It's that shared experience thing, where you know implicitly that the other person just gets what you are going through.
And that's where we were today. Two women, both single, barren, both spotty, both demented. At least in a few days we'll be back to normal. We keep telling ourselves this, anyway.
Thanks, Sal. Oh, for fuck's sake. I'm filling up again.
The most bizarre, wonderful and yet erratic day prompts me to write this blog, just as I'm back from the gym where I've been trying to burn out some of my PMT.
Yes, lads, that's right. I AM going to go there. Premenstrual tension. I have it in abundance.
I'm quite lucky with my 'monthly miseries', as periods go. I don't really get stomach cramps or sickness, which some of my friends do. How they stagger out of bed to work each month is a wonder.
However, although I don't get pains in my stomach, I get them pretty much everywhere else.
My skin erupts into a volcanic, pizza-esque fury that no amount of Touche Eclat can cover up.I feel plump and bloated - there's a picture on some Tube lines of a woman wearing a rubber ring, with the implication that she is suffering from water retention. I can confirm that it feels horrible.
I also develop a sort of waddle when I'm due on - kind of how pregnant women walk, except I'm not pregnant (that's the whole point). Periods are a cruel reminder that you are, for now, a million miles away from being in a position to bring a child into the world.
Not that I want a child yet. In fact, at this point in my life, it's probably my worst nightmare. But every month, I just think: "Ah, yes. Not only am I only just able to look after my neurotic, twenty-something self. But this is nature's way of saying I'm barren, too. I'll never find a bloke. I'm fat, ugly and despicable. AAAAAGH!"
Every little negative thing seems worse. Not just worse, but DREADFUL. I tend to lose perspective, and get panicky about things that really do not matter (like whether you packed a spoon to eat your yoghurt with at lunchtime. Who gives a toss? you wonder. Me, when I turn into a walking hormone).
Sometimes, when you're single, alone in a bedsit, with nothing but Sunday's issue of Fabulous to keep you company and a heady mix of hormones racing round your body, this is enough to tip you over the edge.
EVERYTHING seems worse when you're due on. The slightest thing can set you on edge and make you want to weep/punch things. Any man who thinks I'm over-exaggerating quite simply does not know what he's talking about. You have never been through it; therefore, you will shut up and listen.
Once, when approaching that delightful time of the month, I was in the shower and the curtain kept wrapping round my leg. I was furious, and close to tears. Why couldn't it just leave me alone? Normally it would only be vaguely annoying, or even funny, but I honestly felt defeated and on the verge of snapping. Scary.
Or you'll have your iPod on shuffle, and the haunting strains of Sinead O'Connors 'Nothing Compares 2U' seep into your consciousness before you have time to quickly flick to another track. You're in bits, and it hasn't even got to the "It's been seven hours...." opening wail. It's pitiful.
The final straw for me was when my lovely boss and editor, Sally, bought her scrumptious daughter Ruby into the office last week to show her where Mummy worked.
Ruby got upset because it was a strange place/she'd just woken up/she was developing toothache. Sally was so lovely with her, cuddling her closely and playing see-saw, Marjorie Door, across the table until Ruby's little face lit up with love and happiness.
You guessed it. The tears were pricking behind my eyelids, and I had to give myself a QUICK talking to.
Why was I crying? Well, it's anything that touches any sort of emotion in you. When you're approaching 'that time', these emotions are felt with a peculiar, white-heat sort of intensity - well, they are with me, anyway.
My tummy like a rubber ring, my skin red and blotchy and my hormones causing me to weep at love scenes between Roy and Hayley, I'm a bit of a liability around the 10th of each month. Tears, tantrums, yes. Teasing, no. If you make fun of Alex while she is like this, Alex will cry. At you. Ardently.
By the end of the whole thing, I'm usually musing two things quite strongly. 1) All this to have children? And 2) They'd better be worth it!
Sally assures me they are. I guess I'll have to wait and see.
Ah, Sally. That brings me to the next part of the blog. The oestrogen lounge that was the Famous Features office today. That's right, I have a job, working permanently for Sally, who used to be my freelance editor. So far, I am absolutely loving it. Yes, I love the work I do, which always helps. But the people I work with really make it special.
The new Famous Features office consists of three people: Sally, Gareth and I. It's a fabulous, close-knit environment, and I sort of feel like Sally and Gareth are my older brother and sister. They look out for me, help me - and I pester Gareth for help with computer stuff in a little-sister sort of way. It's loads of fun, and I am delighted that this is the job I have ended up with.
Today, though, it was just Sally and I in the office, as Gareth was having his car MOT'd. And guess what. Both of us were premenstrual. Not only that, but we realised after invasive questioning on both sides that we both took our last Pill yesterday, and both take the same kind of Pill.
Do you understand what this means? Basically, today we merged into the same nightmare hormone. Our cycles are synchronised - this is augmented by the fact that we even take the same Pill.
Well, what a day we had! We talked and talked (in between writing and selling hard-hitting features, of course), about loves, hates, laughter, disappointments and difficult times.
It was a no-holds barred, inherently feminine atmosphere. We were, as Sally later text me (we both reflected on the day with incredulity) like two balls of cosmic hormonal energy bouncing off each other.
She'd fill up with tears, and just about get a hold of it. Then I would. Then we both would. Somehow we each managed to hold back from actually sitting on the floor, doing some PMT busting yoga and scoffing Maltesers. We held it together. We held each other together.
I'm pretty sure that had I been successful in any of the other jobs I'd applied for up to now, my day would have been a lot different. I would have done a lot of face-scrunching, swift trips to the loo to have a quick, cleansing sob (it's hormones, I can't help it, a pox on anyone who says otherwise) and eaten a hell of a lot more chocolate.
But I was at least comforted by the fact that Sally was going through the same thing. She, in turn, was marvellously supportive.
We both traversed each other's highs and lows. I bemoaned my complexion, she bemoaned hers. I clung to her during my blood sugar's see-sawing - she was comforted by my proffering of chocolate during a difficult and sensitive phone call she took.
No matter how feminism has changed over the decades, I think there's something about women helping other women through a process that's as old as the hills (this doesn't make it any easier) that truly captures what feminism is about.
It's that shared experience thing, where you know implicitly that the other person just gets what you are going through.
And that's where we were today. Two women, both single, barren, both spotty, both demented. At least in a few days we'll be back to normal. We keep telling ourselves this, anyway.
Thanks, Sal. Oh, for fuck's sake. I'm filling up again.
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