The morning of New Year’s Day last year was not fantastic.
Despite cutting out dairy (under protest) several months prior and DD’ing my husband Henry’s and my COVID-safe celebrations the night before in a cute town a couple hours away from home, I woke up feeling bloated and nauseous and exhausted and all-together shitty. I groaned and rolled out of Henry’s arms before lifting the covers to make sure I hadn’t bled all over our motel sheets. Nothing was there, thank goodness. I kissed Henry’s cheek and huffed to myself as I shoved my frigid feet into my slippers and rose from the bed, my aching back tightening with discomfort. Padding over to the dingy bathroom, I let out a stream of curses. Fuck, my tits were sore. I cupped one in each hand in the hopes that lifting them slightly would ease the pressure in my lower back.
This was PMS from hell. Meanwhile, fucking Henry was sleeping the sleep of the completely fucking unbothered, his mouth probably making that stupid fucking “pfeeew” sound he makes when he’s deep in REM sleep while I was being sabotaged by my traitorous uterus. By the time I climbed back under the covers, Henry had begun to stir. “Where did you go?” he muttered sleepily, grabbing me and pulling me against him.