I don’t know if I am hormonal. I don’t know if any particular cause of stress is something to wind up the most unflappable person, or something only the personification of PMS would possibly find irritating. But perhaps I should just enjoy it.
What was stressing me yesterday morning (“Fuck fuck fuck fuck…”, you know the drill) was getting to Luton by 11am today. To avoid the stress, I decided not to bother, and got there by lunchtime.
-Are you not eating?
-I was away from home and could not make lunch.
-Would you like a banana?
-I knew someone would get genuine pleasure from helping me out. I am providing a service.
-I’m sorry, I can only offer a marmite sandwich.
-You are feeding me, and you are apologising?
-I’m beautiful. I feel beautiful for the first time in my life.
-Do you mean inner beauty? Joyce is confused, and I am insulted.
-Bugger inner beauty and sod wisdom, I am talking about surfaces. I love being Shallow!
Later, introduce yourself and share anything you like. Joyce is 46, and upset by the lines on her face. She does not like ageing. I go next. “I am Abigail, and I am Beautiful.”
In the dancing, I am still, exploring dancing with my feet rooted to the floor. Timmy does not like this, but rather than asking me to move he issues a general instruction that anyone wishing to be still should move to the side. So I stay. He gives the same general instruction, and I decide to do the opposite of anything he says. “Breathe” is a difficult one: I hold my breath for half a minute. I notice the others, instructed to move forward in fours, look round worriedly: are there four already? We so want to conform.
Observant folk will notice I am boasting of small disobediences. Well, I am backward, have never learned to push boundaries, always wanted to win approval by conformity, but such approval if given at all is worthless. Baby steps.