I’m so glad that it’s nearly June because May was a bit of a downer month for me. For most people, if they’re having a bit of a sad time, something like “I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet” would make them appreciate the things they do have. For me, I stop being sad for myself, and start being really sad for the guy with no feet. Imagine having no feet? Life would be so hard with no feet!
May is Mother’s Day month and I have several friends who have lost their mums. So while we’re celebrating our amazing mums, they’re reminded all month that they don’t have one to spend the day with. That was all a bit emotional for me, thinking of my friends with no mums meant a few mornings of crying in the car.
Crying in the car is silly. For some reason you feel like you’re in your own private bubble, it feels like a good place to have a good bawl, when really you’re a gold fish, in a bowl. The people beside you at the lights, they can see that you’re sobbing. The pedestrian on the crossing, she can see that you’ve got tears streaming down your face and you’re blowing your nose on a used McDonald’s serviette because you don’t have a tissue. When you get into the office and you’ve got big white stripes through your bronzer and your eyes look like piss holes in the snow, it’s hardly believable that you’ve just been cutting onions for a barbeque for the army reserves.
Several friends have anniversaries of losing loved ones in May, so I had a few tears for them. And for me, May means the month before an anniversary of my own, so I shed the odd tear for myself. For my Nan, May also signified six months into the rest of a life time without her husband of 53 years, so there were tears for her, and for my Pop, who was one of the best humans on the planet.
In May I had a friend with a very sick mum, and three friends who lost their grandmothers. So I had a bit of a cry for them too. Oh the joys of being an emotional wreck. I’m not too sure how it happened, but I somehow got an overactive cry gene. It’s like an overactive thyroid in that it’s hard to diagnose and very difficult to treat, unfortunately it doesn’t cause unexpected weight loss, but thankfully it also doesn’t cause diarrhoea or hair loss.
In 1991, my parents stupidly let me watch a documentary about the Gulf War in Kuwait. You better believe they regretted that, after a series of night time visits. I would appear at my dad’s bedside, crying my eyes out because I thought that he was going to be enlisted to go and fight for the oil, and that he probably wouldn’t make it out alive. What sort of a child can comprehend that at age 8?
When I was 9 my dad forbade me from attending funerals, after I cried uncontrollably through his friend’s mum’s service. This unfortunate habit meant my mum didn’t tell me that she’d had Kane the Siamese cat put to sleep. It was weeks before I asked her where he was, and of course the answer meant hours of wailing “I can’t believe you killed my best friend!!”. We can’t have been that tight if it took me 22 nights to notice his absence from the foot of my bed.
When I was in my late teens, my boyfriend at the time went to a wedding. Somehow, he accidentally had sexual relations with the bride’s aunty in the bathroom, which resulted in an unplanned pregnancy. Imagine what that news does to an 18 year old with self esteem issues. I cried so much that I got a rash around my eyes, talk about adding insult to injury. The 7kg weight loss was the silver lining to that cloud…first year uni is not kind to the thighs…or the ass…or the muffin top…
I think my over emotive May could also have been due to the long hours at work and lack of sleep, it always seems to make everything a million times worse. I was glad to use that as an excuse when I cried about leaving my lunch at home on the bench. As if further confirmation of my wretchedness was required, I also cried when I opened my gym bag and realised I hadn’t packed socks. First world problems much?
May wasn’t all crying in the car though, there were definitely some ups to the downs. A good friend of mine silently struggled with infertility for years. When I first met her, she was secretly pregnant – she’s one of those lucky people that can hide a pregnancy for 22 weeks.
Her little man was born almost two years ago, and when we go on our walking dates she sometimes talks about measures to alleviate any issues he may have growing up as an only child. I’ve often said to her that there’ll be another, but she has always assured me that it’s impossible. We caught up a few months back and she was doing her best impersonation of a yummy mummy, fresh from a triathlon, and looking trim.
Fast forward to mid May and we catch up for lunch. She stood up and I thought “gosh, I knew horizontal stripes could be unflattering, but…”. She waited until I was half way through my chicken salad with extra chicken, when she said “I’ve got some news”. Well I started crying before she’d even got the words out. “I told you! I told you!” I said, and clapped my hands like a crazy lady, attracting curious stares from the staff and our fellow diners. What a blessing. How comforting that in a month of mourning there could be so much excitement for her little miracle.
Another win in May: I managed to buy my mum a gift that she actually uses. I won’t mention that she made me return the cake stand I also got her for Mother’s Day, because the good news is that she uses the scales! I’ve entered her height, her age and her gender in there and on she hops. The magic machine not only tells her how much she weighs, it also measures how dense her bones are, what her body fat percentage is, and what her hydration level is. Only in my crazy family, would a weight measuring device be an acceptable gift.
With positivity being the point of this final paragraph I’d like to advise that when I first jumped on the scales I was pretty much a Victoria’s Secret model. My body fat was low, muscle mass was high, bone density was good, I was well hydrated, and I’m pretty sure I saw “TOTAL BABE” flash across the screen. Then I saw that the little icon on the left was wearing pants and not a dress…a quick flick of the switch and I jump back on, same weight, same height, only now my body fat percentage is considerably higher, my muscle mass is low, I’ve got brittle bones and I’m dehydrated. Needless to say, me and those scales, we’re no longer friends.