I am in such a bad mood. Frustrated, fed up, cross, angry. GRUMPY. I don’t know if I want to hit something and scream or cry. It’s that kind of grumpiness that makes me want to petulantly shout ‘oh just fuck off’ to anyone who says anything that annoys me. And it’s that type of crossness that means anything annoys me. You see that circle there? It’s vicious alright.
It’s not proportionate to events. It’s actually quite irrational. It’s not PMT, it’s not horrendous chronic pain. It’s pent-up frustration and unspent energy. And little things irritating me that have built up through the day and exploding like a fizzy bottle shaken too much.
I wasn’t in this mood all day. I had spent a lovely morning with my Winter Boy at a softplay centre, where there was a bored looking woman doing music and dancing with the children. And, as it turns out, with me. I have no rhythm any more and I suspect this realisation that I’m no longer able to rock with the toddlers added a teensy bit of Fizz into that bottle.
I had my third Expert Patients Programme session this afternoon. R had initially asked if he could drop me off, I said I needed the car. However, while I was out shaking pompoms and I utilised my fab female skill of multitasking and mentally realised that Summer Girl finished school during this session, unlike for the last 2 sessions over Easter holidays. When I got home I agreed with R that he does in fact need the car. It was not enough that I had bowed down to his greater wisdom. No. He was now cross about having to drive me there, and pick me back up again at 4:30pm. What was he going to do while I was there, with the children? Well, the same thing you had thought of doing when you first suggested it and it was your idea. For Fuck’s Sake. And that was another dose of fizz added.
I was late. Ok I wasn’t late, I rocked up by the skin of my teeth, but that’s not the point. Because I am on R time, not my time. That means that before we leave, he needs to make himself a cooked lunch. And I am on Winter Boy time, not my time. And this means that before we leave Winter Boy had discarded his trousers and pants never to be seen again. As R drove the car along an alternative route to try it out, which is always great when you are late, another huge dose of fizz was injected into the bottle.
The Expert Patients Programme was good. We finished early at 4:15pm. R was not on his way, he was going to be 20 mins he said. Not sure how he figured he would be picking me up at the normal finish time of 4:30pm and so, with the wind in my hair, and my bones, the fizz started to creep up towards the neck of the clearly small bottle. But as I felt it rising, rising, I made a point of not shaking it, and started to walk. R met me half way.
Now, one thing that had kept me sane all day was the prospect of going swimming. With my new goggles. and my new nose clip. I had even dug out my flip-flops for the poolside and was ultra organised. Everything was packed right down to my razor for the long hot shower afterward, everything apart from my swimming cap. That’s around somewhere right? But, as I walked to meet R, I realised I really fancy some gym time, I need to burn sweat. I have too much energy, it needs to get out. I think about music and yes, that’s what I want! Can’t wait. R has obviously picked up my iPod nano from his locker at work, where it has been living for the last 2 months, as I asked to do so this week, and he went in today for something. The fizz settled a little.
I made tea for the children, and got ready, feeling my unspent frustrations all about to be pounded away at the gym. Couldn’t find socks that match, children had been playing with my goggles and headphones and then I asked The Question. I knew the answer as the words tumbled out of my mouth and I tensed everything up waiting for the bottle to explode as the words ‘oh shit! no sorry’ left R’s lips. I cannot exercise without music. I just can’t. OK, I can, if we are going to be picky about it. But I don’t enjoy it, I can’t pace myself and it goes from being fun to being a huge chore. I spent the next hour trying desperately to download Spotify to my Smartphone, only to find it’s not that fucking smart. So, absolutely devastated, crushed, that my perfect plan fell apart, the fizz quietly spilt out of the bottle as I stopped myself from throwing the phone at the wall.
But, that wasn’t enough to ruin my plans. I would just have to swim, with my new goggles and new nose clip. But, can I find the FUCKING SWIMMING CAP? And so my evening has actually been ruined. I can’t go swimming now. I’m too cross. The bottle has no more room, and has been shaken violently. I am so fucking cross I am not really sure what to do with myself. And because it’s not entirely rational angst, I can’t deal with it ‘sensibly’.
The best thing to do is quietly take myself off upstairs to engross myself in social media world, but as I am not rude, I tell R I am going upstairs. ‘no you’re not! Dinner is here, if you’re not going out, you got to eat, you didn’t eat lunch’. I’m not hungry, but I might be tempted ‘what is it?’ ‘fish and chips’. FISH AND FUCKING CHIPS? FFS. we had that last night! I don’t want that again. Especially as I made a special tuna with chilli and garlic, home-made chips and salad. I don’t want oven chips, spaghetti and breaded fish. Bleurgh. And at this point, the only thing that I can do to resolve this situation is to let the fizz outa that goddamm bottle and have a full-blown Proper Strop.
The cork hit the cat, who had tried to nuzzle and suckle and irritate me, after I had stomped up the stairs, and thrown myself onto the bed in a dramatic impression of a teenager not allowed out with her friends past 9pm and so I did petulantly shout ‘oh just fuck off!’ at her.
And I am now nestled in my duvet, fluffed with pillows I still feel poisonous because things didn’t go my way. And I still haven’t got my unspent energy out.
And I’m now fucking hungry.