It’s the final day of my bleed. The clouds have parted. Rising oestrogen tickles my senses like sunbeams on the skin and a mouthful of Wizz Fizz. @livinghormoniously hilariously labels it the Phase of the Short Shorts.

I’ve got a strut in my step and a to-do list that be like:

• Research solo Antarctic expedition
• Purchase salsa lessons pack
• Pen memoir within two months
• Launch lady start-up

I never imagined I’d admit this, but Miley Cyrus heads this playlist. I’m ignoring the ‘body revenge’ hint in the ‘Flowers’ film clip and embracing the celebratory anthem of self-love and independence. The catchy chorus coaxes my legs to sashay as if possessed by an electropop puppeteer. I feel confident, I feel empowered, I feel like I should’ve warmed up so I don’t pull something.

My joints are now juicy for Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy in Love’. The beats beckoning my butt not to hold back. I may even attempt to replicate Bey’s stilettoed stride, but if you don’t hear from me for 48 hours, send paramedics.

I suggest those lactose-intolerant look away for a moment. The cheesy pleasy ‘Despacito’ by Luis Fonsi [Feat: Daddy Yankee] is playing, and I’m not apologising. The Latino-laced plucks of the Puerto Rican guitar saunters into saucy reggaeton. I’m taken back to my Costa Rican holiday, where grinding against strangers on dance floors is celebrated in a way that would otherwise see me banned from my local RSL.

The beauty of the follicular phase is the combination of frisky and fist-pumpy. This is my window to get stuff done. Enter the anthem.

Oh, Journey, where would karaoke be without ‘Don’t Stop Believin’? If anyone says they’ve never pictured themselves on stage in head-to-toe spandex with one leg propped up on a speaker, the wind machine turned to 10 and belting out the chorus to this ’80s power ballad, they’re lying.

Lastly, Foo Fighters had me at humour with the ‘Learn to Fly’ film clip. Combine this with the track’s knack to pick me up and whirl me skywards into a feel-good pirouette of committing to endless ideas that I may or may not regret in two phases’ time.

Here we go! Oestrogen peaks and some of its hormone homies come to the party, creating feels akin to a 20,000-strong crowd harmonised sing-a-long and triggering ovulation. The mature egg is released, free to boogie down the fallopian tube, ready for its destiny (whether child or no child).

My heart feels fluffy, my eyes starry and a tiny voice whispers ‘bow-chicka-wow-wow’ to my libido. As period preacher Lucy Peach tells Mamaia’s Fill My Cup podcast, this is the phase that those on Tinder (me, at the time of publishing) need to heed cautiously because those rose-coloured glasses are double-lensed, baby.

What’s that I hear? The saucy synth bass of Ginuwine’s ‘Pony’ (yes, that Magic Mike XXL scene) has me body-rolling in front of any mirrored surface in my path while blocking out how bad the lyrics are. I’m blushing as Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme purrs ‘Make It Wit Chu’ in my ears. Prince is leaving little to innuendo with ‘Cream’. And Kylie Minogue’s gyrating ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’ lures me into a false reality where I wouldn’t spill something on that iconic white outfit.

I’m turning down the tempo, sinking into Massive Attack’s ‘Protection’, which, contrary to its title, probably orchestrated a million conceptions in the mid-to-late ’90s. And while I have Gen-X’s attention, I’ll flashback to Janet Jackson’s smooth and syrupy ‘That’s the Way Love Goes’. Chris Isaak’s ‘Wicked Game’ falsetto is like a sonic feather tickle, MGMT’s ‘Electric Feel’ isn’t an OH&S concern at all, and, quite frankly, I now need a nap.

It’s the time my PR machine is on standby to clean up any truth bombs I might drop and with a box of tissues ready to wipe away any tears I might express at the sight of a sad advertisement. Oestrogen dips post-ovulation, then rises slightly before clocking off for its RDOs, while progesterone creeps up to its highest point in the cycle. If Luna Park wants the next thrill-seeker ride, this is the blueprint.

My first track, ‘Boyfriend (Repeat)’ by Confidence Man, is the musical embodiment of the ick. Naturally, I choose to play it during that part of my cycle when open-mouthed chewing, loud breathing and applauding plane landings are deal-breakers. Kudos to Janet Planet for those catchy, catty vocals that make me feel understood in my utterly unreasonable critiques. Dolly Parton’s guilt-tripping honesty in ‘Joelene’ and All Our Exes Live in Texas’s extreme measures on ‘I’m Gonna Get My Heart Cut Out’ make me wonder if there’s research on the luteal phase being the catalyst for country hits.

Try singing the Cure’s ‘Pictures of You’ or Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing Cars’ without a quivering voice. And, let’s face it, we can probably agree that most of the Smiths’ catalogue makes the cut.

Belting out choruses to Goyte’s ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’ and Amy Winehouse’s ‘Back to Black’ has neighbours banging on walls to shut me up, Bon Iver’s ‘Skinny Love’ beckons me into the woods to find a gentle man, and SZA’s ‘Kill Bill’ may be used against me in a court of law.

Progesterone and oestrogen have their OOO reply on, and I self-impose a ban on doing social media updates. The womb sheds its lining and makes its escape, and I need some supplies before I hit play: hot water bottle. Check. Blankie. Check. Twenty blocks of chocolate and a bib. Check.

London Grammar’s ‘Rooting for You’, Jeff Buckley’s ‘Last Goodbye’ and Jarryd James’s ‘Do You Remember’ allow me to put adventure-seeker Kate aside and soften. And minor chord melancholy on Mazzy Star’s ‘Fade Into You’, Duran Duran’s ‘Save a Prayer’ and Angus & Julia Stone’s ‘Paper Aeroplane’ allows emotion to coax out a tear or two.

The cheeky bridge in Amy Shark’s ‘Adore’ delivers the perfect feeling-with-funny combination and Courtney Barnett coyly reminds a FOMO me that ‘Nobody Really Cares If You Don’t Go to the Party’ and, quite frankly, I’m relieved.