When I was 13, I was convinced that when I grew up I was not going to look at all like anything I currently resembled. Time would work it’s magic and erase the curse of genetics and biology and I’d suddenly sprout to be my dream height of 5’11, have a pert C-cup, thick wavy blonde hair and a face made for magazine covers.

Because, like duh, someone had to look like that so why couldn’t it be me?

I may not have been the brightest child, but I like to think I get points for being one of the most optimistic.

Of course, I have somehow managed to grow up and not look a whole heck of a lot different than I did at 13. At least, not while clothed. I’m an inch or two taller now, I’ve got lines across my face and both my arse cheeks and my breasts dangle a little further south than they used to. If my 13 year old self knew that I’d just grow up to look like a haggard, slightly puffier version of my teenaged self, only with better hair and a working credit card, I’d have spent less time day dreaming about all the fame and fortune my new looks would bring me and more time learning about important things like science, logic and why geek girls will always be hot.

This month, this January, I seem to have reverted back to my 13 year old self, minus the flat chest and firm butt. For some reason, these last few weeks I’ve been hormonal, angst-ridden and mostly delusional with my optimism.

It would seem I’ve either entered adult puberty or I’m pregnant.

Relax Boo. I’m 99.9 percent sure I’m not gestating life. I couldn’t swear on it in a court of law though because my self-esteem refuses to let me think that some holy deity wouldn’t want me to be the mother to his magically conceived love child.

So it must be puberty. I blame my teenagers for this. Their hormones are contagious.

This entire month, I’ve just kept telling myself to ‘give it another day. Tomorrow will be better.’

It is now January 24 23 (dammit, I was really hoping to be one day closer to ending this stupid month!) and I’m now starting to see that maybe there aren’t enough days in January for it to actually get better before the month ends. In the last three weeks, I’ve gained 9 pounds, fought with my kids, barely seen my husband, had TWO tires freeze flat from extreme arctic temperatures, not blogged at all and accidentally froze my wet hand to a metal door outside.

January has officially sucked. I think we should all campaign to have January removed from the calendar.

However, the optimist in me is demanding that I see the sunshiny side of January life.

The only thing I can think of?

I haven’t shaved my legs once this month.

Oh, and that my kid is really damn cute in flannel pajamas.

I almost wish I was pregnant with some mystical, non-sexual deity induced pregnancy. Just imagine how cute that kid would look in flannel jammies.