A couple of days ago I remarked on how I had a gorge-fest in front of the refrigerator as soon as I walked in the door at home. Wild animals couldn’t have torn be away from the luscious banquet of nommables held within, I was out of my head with a nearly inexplicable hunger. Threw me for so much of a loop that I had to write about it, for Pete’s sake.
Well, it appears as though the inexplicable has been explained, and for that I have but one thing to say:
Fuck you, uterus.
Can I be frank with you, dear readers? It has been 10 MONTHS since I last had to deal with the lil’ gift of Mother Nature to her fertile daughters. That’s enough time to conceive a child, incubate it to full term, birth it, and get a month’s worth of really shitty sleep. In other words, A.Very.Long.Time. In that time one can easily get used to not having those hormone-laced behavior swings, the unnatural craving for grilled chicken, the 5-pound overnight weight gain, the lightweight’s susceptibility to the sweet sweet effects of Jim Beam….
Get used to it I did, as well as get used to not carrying around supplies for such an occurrence, as well as not getting zits, as well as not having painfully tender boobies, as well as a whole frigging HOST of other symptoms that come with the curse.
I was happy as a menopausal woman. HAPPY! And NOW look at me, no longer menopausal, no longer enjoying the benefits of a stable lifestyle brought about by the absence of hormone cataclysma, no longer smug in my ability to just get up n’ go each and every day. It’s back to the same old shit that I’d been doing for the 35 years prior, including the God-awful farts, the intestinal gurgling, the general tiredness, the overwhelming desire to suck down a brick of dark chocolate.
Dudes (and by that I mean MEN), you simply have no idea what your women are going through. Why, I’D forgotten, and I’m a girl of long-standing! It’s miserable, this thing is. Backache and malaise and trips to the bathroom to check on ‘status’ and circles under the eyes and a lust for crunchy foods that nobody seems to have invented yet….
I can hear one or two of you out there saying ‘yeah, well at least this means you’re not pregnant.’ Two words for you jokers: SHUT UP. I’d almost rather BE pregnant than this. I mean, at least with pregnancy you get to glow and people are happy for you. With this ‘thing,’ you are simply angry and bloated and pimply and gassy, which nobody is happy about.
Note to self: investigate if non-medical elective hysterectomy is covered by insurance. If it’s not, investigate investing in a backyard distillery.
I followed a guy yesterday on my commute who I think may have been having a stroke on the road. Brakes on, brakes off, weave to the left, weave to the right. Slow down, speed up, then start all over again. He was a lane-crossin’ fool, an artist of the brake pedal, a slow stroll in the fast lane, and a complete menace to everyone around him. In response to his macadamecal meanderings, I may have experienced a tiny dab of road rage. I may actually have flung an epithet or 80 in his general direction, my mental monkey may have chucked spleenloads of verbal poo at the inept auto operator, and indeed my face may have turned a shade of red normally reserved for very ripe slicing tomatoes.
And it? Felt so very very good. Oh random anger, how delicious you are.
Also delicious was the moment that menace turned right, and got the hell out of my way.
My time here is up. I need to go count the new zits I’m sure have sprung up since I tallied those two new ones an hour ago, and check ‘status.’ Y’all have your selves a wonderful day for me, won’t you?
(also, go check out the Wordsmiths at wordsmithsunlimited.blogspot.com. There's a pretty picture that needs YOU to write it a story. By Tuesday. See? Plenty of time)