All my eggs are dead. Or something.
For about five years, I’ve been teetering on the cliff of peri-menopause, meaning I get the worst of both worlds. Not only do I have a menstrual cycle, with blood and pain and behaving once a month like men do all the time, but I also have hot flashes and really entertaining hormonal flares. Whee!
This month, it seems, I have crossed the Rubicon. I’ve had all the symptoms of PMS and menstruation, as well as menopausal symptoms, but I’m not actually bleeding. This is so fucking hateful that I cannot even describe my rage.
In case you were wondering, let me describe my current physical condition: I hurt. From my shoulders to my knees, I feel pain. And not a singular, consistent pain. No. I have cricks in my neck, aches in my shoulders, a sharp cramp in my upper back, deep aches in my hips that turn to sharp aches when I walk, a feeling like I have to shit in my abdomen, and intermittent throbs in lower back and thighs.
I’ve also had numerous meetings, including international conference calls, this week. I have pretended to be human, when all I want to do is scream, cry, and curl up into a fetal knot and feel sorry for myself. I cannot even describe my existential fury, and yet I am required to be polite, pleasant, and professional. I deserve a fucking prize, man. A giant, gold cup filled with chocolate and gin, handed over by nubile twins wearing only a smile.
Instead, I came home to a sink-full of dishes and whiny cats, begging for dinner. The carpet can rot for another day, I don’t even care, and if there are ants in the bathroom, well, good luck to them. I hate ants, more than any other insect, they symbolize poor housekeeping and female failure to me, but I HURT and I am TIRED and I don’t CARE. Screw it. I’ll clean tomorrow.