Sunday, 14 December 2008
Just a week and a half of work before the holidays, and it can't come soon enough. It's not the prospect of a hairy, jolly, fat man sneaking around my bedroom in the wee small hours and fiddling around with my stockings that is so appealing (sorry the husband). But it marks the end of a tough year. My own personal annus horribilis.
I know it was only a few weeks ago that I was galavanting naked across Europe and even less time ago that I truffled through 4 course lunches in between siestas. But these breaks are a very distant memory.
But 2008, I am over it. Bring on 2009.
2008 for me will be remembered as the year of tests, of waiting, of confusion, of mixed messages, of jagged tubes, that became a polyps, that became a womb full-to-the-brim of gunk - certainly no place to raise an embryo. A quarter of the year will have been spent topping my my body's progesterone to fool it into thinning out my womb lining for the mother of all periods.
2008 is like all the shit you go through before the fun stuff, the cleaning the room, preparing the walls, washing them down with sugar soap, filling in all the cracks and ensuring that the furniture is covered before the real fun starts.
2009 will be proactive.
2009 is putting the paint on the wall (something bright and cheerful).
2009, has to be better.
I daren't even write what I want to be doing this time next year for fear of jinxing it. But a bit of a clue - it involves my breasts and (once again apologies the husband) there nothing sexual about the fun bag's involvement. Can you guess?
What I have to decide now, is whether this year was really that bad or if this post is a culmination of a double roll-over hangover and the prospect of another Monday morning a mere 10 hours away.