I haven't been blogging much lately. I haven't felt like it. I haven't felt like much of anything. It's time to say it - I'm middle aged.
And... HORROR OF HORRORS! I think I might be going through THE CHANGE.
It's early, and it's not full-on, which makes me think I am peri-menopausal rather than menopausal. Apparently you can get lower grade menopause symptoms for years before you actually have the climb the big mountain.
Oh, joy.
Some nights I sweat, I am horribly moody and, worst of all, my skin is exploding with deep, sore, scarring pimples. It's like being 14 again, except nobody's given me my virginity back, I'm not surrounded by tight-butted teenage boys and I don't have my whole life ahead of me.
So what's good or funny or noteworthy about this? Why am I blogging about it?
I have no fucking idea.
Having conversations with female colleagues about where to buy cheap, breathable pillows isn't fun. Constantly having to wash my PJs isn't fun. Slathering foundation with a trowel on my face to hide yet another angry, red protrusion isn't fun.
I think I'd feel better if I was rich. If I was rich I could say "Fuck you, 22 year olds! You can barely afford to eat baked beans on toast. I raise my toast smothered in pate, my glass of Bollinger and I say... Fuck you!"
But, sadly, I have yet to win the lottery, so there is no Bolly, although we do occasionally have pate.
Go see a doctor? Sure, I'll go see a doctor. If you pay for it.
The last time I ordered a 90 day supply of three of my regular medicines, it cost me $268, so adding more pills to the bill sounds like a fine idea. Oh, and did I mention there's cancer in my family? I don't want to jump on the good ship HRT quite yet.
Naturopath? I'd love to. I'll just not put gas in the car this month, and then we'll be able to afford that, too. And don't get all huffy with me about the car, vegan hippies! Public transport isn't free either!
No.
What I really need is for you to start a fight with me.
Let me thrown an uppercut to bonk you under the chin, a sideswipe to connect with your left eye and a swift kick to crush your left testicle. Let me watch you slowly go down, roll you on your side with my left foot and then kick you repeatedly in the kidneys with my right. I want to hear the air expelled from your lungs at force, softening your screams to a barely audible moan. I want to lift your head up by your hair and smash your nose into the tarmac. I want to lift your head again and spit in your face. I want to steeple my fingers, bringing my hands together, swing my arms above my head and, grunting with pleasure, slam my double fist into your ribs and smile as I hear one crack. I want to grab a baseball bat and swing it round in the air three times before, completing a perfect arc, I let it crash into your shin. As you double over and reach to grab your knee, drawing your injured leg up, I want to slowly place my shoe on your toes, increasing the pressure and twisting your foot, then transfer my weight forward all at once, forever destroying your ankle.
I want to hear you cry, hear you beg, hear you finally stop making any sound at all because you simply can't.
And then I want to walk away leaving you there, broken.
And this is when your real job starts.
You have to get away, you have to magically heal, and you have to come back tomorrow and let me do it all over again.
You heard me, Life.
Bring it!
To read more in the I am Woman series, click the category link on the left.