As I've said before, this blog is like a shrink I don't need to pay so this post is going to be one of those 'need to vent and throw a pity party for myself' posts. Don't say I didn't warn ya'...
Woke up this morning at six thirty with a marching band stomping around in my head banging brain cells around and the urge to gulp down a small ocean (minus the salty bits). I felt very sorry for myself, especially when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and actually lost count while trying to tally up the bags under my eyes...
One Myprodol, six glasses of water, a bubble bath and a generous sprinkling of Bobbi Brow's miracle 'shimmer brick' bronzer later I was feeling (and looking) a little more fab than drab. Once the marching band quit banging against the inside of my skull I put my new Black Eyed Peas CD on full blast and found myself dancin' around in my living room and my mood went from overcast with a chance of thunder showers to fine and sunny.
Before you think that the reason for my state was due to a night out on the town, downing tequila shots and dancing on bars, let me explain...
You see I didn't get much sleep last night on account of it's pretty hard to doze off when you're all snot and waterworks. Before my emotional breakdown I'd been to dinner with some lovely friends and had a couple of glasses of vino – standard behaviour, nothing out of the ordinary – however, it was my forgetting to drink a big glass of water (like I always do before I go to bed after wine o clock) when I got home that rolled out the welcome mat for a great big 'Good Morning' headache.
The bags under my eyes are due to the combo of (above mentioned) sleep deprivation and lots and lots of tears. I don't cry often, but when I do, I do it properly – I'm talking full-on ugly cry... mascara-dripping-off-my-chin-type-stuff. I've never been good at that one glistening tear rolling down the cheek thing that some girls pull off effortlessly.
I'm not going to go into exactly how I went from having an utterly fabulous time with friends (laughing, drinking, eating, chatting) to a basketcase, but I will say that if you insist on keeping things bottled up you will eventually explode and it won't be pretty. A good cry does wonders and, at the risk of sounding like a card-carrying hippie, serves as a great cleanser – a deep tissue massage for the soul.
Also, if like me, you're prone to doing a great impression of a swan (on the surface you appear to be gracefully gliding across the water but underneath your legs are paddling furiously) then it's sometime good to remind people around you that you're not always as strong as you present yourself to be. No one is bullet proof. Everyone [insert bleep here]'s when they stub their toe on a coffee table.
And on that note, I've been humming the chorus of this song by Hootie and the Blowfish, appropriately titled 'Let her cry' all morning:
"Let her cry, if the tears fall down like rain
Let her sing, if it eases all her pain
Let her go, let her walk right out on me
And if the sun comes up tomorrow
Let her be, let her be."
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