Blood Shed

I knew there'd be blood shed yesterday.

I woke up in a not-very-happy-wish-I'd-finished-all-my-shopping mood. And I had to get my testosterone levels checked so that meant a little trip to the pathology place and an up close and personal with a phlebotomist (just love the way that word rolls off the tongue) hence the blood shed.

I'm not really sure why I was so cranky. Maybe it's the 'roids. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it was because I had to take my better half to the shops and I like to shop alone. Maybe it was because there were so many more people at my normally quiet centre and I don't like to share. Definitely it was because I was tired and I was annoyed at my body for being tired. And I had a good case of DOMS from the 100m sprints we'd done the day before.

Why oh why do they insist on playing Christmas carols in the shopping centres at Christmas time? They should play really quick tempo music to get people moving faster. I spent my entire time dodging and weaving all the browsers and dawdlers. It was pretty much like a race where the walkers start at the front. Dodging and weaving is challenging when everything below your waist is stiff and tight. Even breathing was tough thanks to intercostal DOMS. But I made the finish line (ticking off my last three gifts) with only a few homicidal thoughts. Santa doesn't count thought crimes on his naughty list does he?

Luckily, though, I woke up feeling much better again this morning. I had a lovely, sweaty 11k run. Still suffering from DOMS. At one point there was a kookaburra on a low branch and I swear he was laughing at the way I was running but I'll take running funny over not running at all - I have very little pride. And neither did the triathlete who was running on the same path wearing just a white singlet, a Santa's hat and a pair of red Speedos. He kept making me want to sing Jingle Bells.

I got home and got a phone call from my cleaning lady telling me that she felt sick and she wouldn't be in today ... or next week ... or the week after that. Good mood vanished to be replaced by psychotic hate-filled harridan. If there's one thing I hate more than cleaning, it's cleaning in 30+ degree temps. But I think I hate stretching after my sweaty runs on a dirty carpet even more. Hairy backs aren't exactly sexy on a woman.

But my usual sunny disposition has been restored thanks to a phone call to my Gynaecologist. The blood results are in and my testosterone levels are within the normal range. That's got to be good. And if they stay there I might start to get back some of what I lost. I still have to remain on the cream and will have a follow-up test in a month. I'm really hoping that in this next month I'll start to see real, tangible results (and by tangible results I don't mean the hairy back scenario).

I'd like to finish this post with a little advice for husbands or partners. If your wife is undergoing hormone therapy and has a, shall we say 'unbalanced' day, when she apologises for being a bit moody (and by a bit I mean threatening to ram cars whose drivers were thoughtless and inconsiderate and being just generally snappy), it's probably best not to say "This better not be permanent". I'd suggest a "It's okay darling. I know your body's undergoing huge changes at the moment and you've had a really hard year. Here let me rub your feet and then I'll get dinner" will get you a much better response and possibly save your life.