I’m going to live forever.

According to my husband, anyway.

The news of my immortality came after we heard a new study found women who keep things to themselves when their husband or partners annoy the beejezus out of them are four times more likely to die early of some heart-related problem.

So it turns out that getting things off your chest is actually good for your chest.

Which, according to Alex, means I am going to live forever, because I have no problem with letting him know when I am annoyed.

I’m not quite sure that he’s right when he says it’ll be me and the cockroaches ruling the world, but I get his point.

Because if something is bothering me, be it with my friends, family, Alex, Collingwood (I don’t exactly have a direct line to Mick Malthouse, so yelling at the TV is the next best thing) or the cat, I tell them.

Because that way, it’s said, you deal with it and then you move on. And it doesn’t have a chance to fester and become something bigger than it really is.

My beautiful sister Lissy, is a little different. She is what I like to call an emotional hoarder.

She had no trouble telling it like it is (like no, I can’t borrow her
shoes/bag/metabolism), and though she’s a petite little thing, I wouldn’t want to cross her when she is in a mood.

But for all her gutsiness, she still struggles with wanting to be a good girl.

And according to the rules, good girls keep their mouth’s shut.

Which would work fine, except for the fact that she is a Remeikis and we are, by nature, a talkative, get-it-off-your-chest bunch.

So she hordes her annoyances inside and masks it with a smile until the Remeikis in her can’t hold back any longer and she finally explodes.

And that is a scary thing to see.

I remember when she asked to go to a friend’s party when she was 13.

When she was told no, instead of yelling the house down, exclaiming about the unfairness of life in general and dramatically throwing herself on her bed like I would have, she just said OK and got on with it.

For two weeks, not another word was mentioned and mum would take inordinate pleasure in pointing out Lissy’s maturity, despite her being three years younger than her slightly dramatic sister. (Mum used a different word to slightly, but hey, she’s not telling the story.)

The night of the party came and went and Lissy seemed to be all smiles, until the following evening when mum asked for a cup of tea.

And she exploded.

And when I say exploded, I mean exploded. H-bombs have got nothing on this girl when she is in a mood.

Every hurt, slight – both real and imagined – strange look and forgotten nicety over the last year came pouring out of her in one huge gush.

And it took another two weeks for her to go back to being the happy, giggly girl we all knew and loved.

Like I said, the girl knows how to hold a grudge.

She’s not alone. A lot of my friends are emotional hoarders.

V says she files away each indiscretion in a special mental file so when she finally does crack, she has immediate access to about six months of angst.

A says her partner is an emotional hoarder, so she has become one out of necessity because she got sick of having one-sided arguments. So they have non-verbal disagreements, where they just won’t talk to each other for a few days.

RR is holding on to angst from the time she was knee high to a grasshopper (seriously, the girl has the memory of an elephant, or whatever it is that remembers stuff forever) and while she manages to have a better grip on it than most, put a few drinks into her, prod a little bit, and drips and drabs make an appearance.

So in the interests of saving their lives and the lives of women like them everywhere, I say it is time to embrace the shrew inside.

Tell the world to kiss your tiara and if that means you ruffle a few feathers, then just remember you are doing it in the interests of your health.

Don’t like the way he leaves his teabags out – let him know.

The uber-moo in your life continually on your back – tell her to back off or that her dog is fat (whatever works).

Your friend or sister continuingly putting your life in a column – well, let her know in the nicest possible way that you appreciate the chance for fame and glory (after all, she loves you) but maybe you don’t want the world hearing about tantrums you had 10 years ago (Even though every word of it is true and you know it, Lis!)

After all – it is your health at stake.

But if your inner-shrew has a few years of emotional hoarding angst holding her down, then maybe you should just post your message here.

Because that’s the type of gal I am – always looking to help save a life. I’ll give you the space you need to have a bitch, thereby extending your life by a few years.

But if you need proof that letting it out keeps you alive longer, let me introduce you to one of the bravest women I have ever met.

My Oma (or grandma, to those not versed in Eastern European upbringings) has never kept a single thing to herself.

Just ask my mum, her daughter-in-law. (Christmas was always such a fun, entertaining occasion in the Remeikis household.) She has said goodbye to three husbands, lost four children, her home and country in a war which had nothing to do with her, but ripped her life apart at the seams, and recently she has had to farewell her younger brother and sister.

I’ve seen her mourn, but never mope, and life has handed her a rawer deal than most.

She’s never intentionally cruel, but just believes life is too short to hold things in.

So she has no problem with letting you know exactly what she thinks, be you family, the pizza delivery boy, doctor or Blue Care nurse (She is about four foot nothing and has made grown men cry. Seriously. I’ve seen it.)

And today she turns 89, still lives independently and remains unafraid to give the world and those in it a great big kick up the arse.

So happy birthday Oma, I hope to be just like you when I grow up.

And to be honest, I think more people should aspire to the same thing.