Today is a fat, ugly, pimply day. I swear I've gained 10 pounds in the past week, my eyebrows are way too bushy, I have had the same massive growth on my chin for the past week and a half, and my new haircut ain't rockin' it like I'd planned. I woke up this morning in a relatively cheerful mood until I realised this was a spillage day--this means I yank on my trousers, struggle to fasten them, then realise I'm totally oozing over the sides in a for-god's-sake-get-some-clothes-that-fit-you-fat-bitch way. The odd thing is, my diet has been good lately, so I have no idea why this is happening. Trust me, I don't cut sugar out of my diet, subsist on wholemeal bread, low fat hummous and cup a soups for the sheer joy.
When I was about to leave for work the shift from rational and normal shifted sharply to crazy and hormonal. The Dude has serious concerns for my mental states, as these displays of multiple personality disorder pop up at least once a week. It is literally a nanosecond change, in which I go from regaling The Dude with humorous work stories to shouting at him to leave me at home because I am too disgusting to venture outdoors. I bet he never knew what he was in for when he married me.
Crazy days always make me think of Scrubs, as a theme in a couple of episodes was women supressing the crazy in them from the men they were dating. An issue of discussion was when to safely unleash the crazy at a late enough stage in the relationship that the man would not run away screaming, but find it endearing. Methinks The Dude wishes he never found it endearing and had in fact run away screaming. I've not only unleashed the crazy, that sucker is on constant watch and ready to feed.
Pity then the poor cyclist that went through a red light today and hit my arm as I was walking to work. He had the nerve to reprimand me as he was cycling away, so clearly he could not tell that it was a crazy day, bless him. Though I'm not the type to shout obscenities at strangers, I found myself cradling my right arm and yelling, "Fuck you asshole!" while standing on the corner of a very busy road during rush hour. This may not seem strange to Americans in big cities that see this sort of thing everyday, but this is England. Bill Bryson rightly pointed out that these people hardly say anything forceful. A car accident provokes, "Oh dear, it appears I am in a spot of bother." rather than "Shit! Bastard. Mother fucker, etc...!!" (my chosen car accident vocabulary). I saw a couple of colleagues from the university looking at me with pity, shaking their heads in disapproval. Surely they were thinking, "Oh, these brash Americans. Have they no composure?" Answer: On a crazy day, no.