No Bun

So, for the past 13 days, I've pondered the concept that I could be pregnant. (Every conceivable variant of that concept has rolled through my mind during those 13 days.)

Fortunately, the chances were beyond slim. My beloved had a vasectomy years and years ago. However, it is what I would call an "unproven" vasectomy because his ex-wife had to have a partial hysterectomy not long after the birth of their third child.

By all accounts, I should be relatively un-fertile these days - and that, coupled with a vasectomy (proven or not) ought to do the trick.

It turns out that there is no bun in this oven... instead, the baker is insane (my hormones are simply WHACK and they are taking my emotions along for the ride). In the past couple of days, I've found myself sitting on my bed with my face buried in the bedspread more than once. I've also cried while folding laundry.

I dislike feeling overwhelmed - especially by emotions and quite particularly by emotions that are only really rooted in a biochemical circumstance. It irritates me. The irritation feeds my emotions which are already greedily gobbling me up from the inside out.

I think the thing that distresses me the most about all of this (at least in this moment) is that what seems to be driving force behind this cycle's trip to WHACKVILLE is a desperate need to make sure everyone ELSE is having a perfect experience. I'm tortured by the concept that I'm not a good hostess/teacher/lover/mate/blah/blah/blah.

And, sitting here now, with distance between me and the moments that drove my face into the blankets, all I really want to say is FUCK THAT. What about me? Maybe I need to have a perfect experience of "good guest behavior" or "willing student" or anything else in the whole world that would make me feel nurtured or cared for.

Yet, here I am (again) not even offering MYSELF the care that I need and deserve. If I can't be bothered to give it to myself, how can I expect anyone else to do so? Even in light of that, I am terribly blessed to have man who helps me fold the tear-jerking laundry and who offers hugs that seem to do me more good than herbal remedies ever could. This fact, however, does not excuse me from being nice to myself.

So, I took a small step today. The idea of going to the wireless phone store was stressful... and so when given the choice between today and tomorrow, I chose what felt more relaxed to me.

Low and behold... the world didn't end.

An Attempt at Catharsis

I don't really want to write this, you must understand. I'm resistant to writing these days. However, lately, my increasing crankiness has reached such absurd levels that it almost seems to warrant this web graffiti - if only to ensure that I continue to laugh at myself and avoid taking any of it too seriously.

I'm 41. I'll be 42 soon enough, and while ole Aunt Flo isn't going anywhere soon, I'm most assuredly entering the zone that empowered females and medical professionals like to term "peri-menopausal." It's basically like that old commercial about drugs... See this egg? This is your nice, normal monthly cycle. Crack that egg, stir it in the pan, and then fling it as hard as you can at anyone else who happens to be standing nearby... and that's your nice, normal monthly cycle during peri-menopause.

So. Yay.

What does this mean? It means that the state of calm and near absence of PMS that I had finally wrangled myself into after years of feeling psychotic once a month is gone again (or so it seems). Instead, my forehead is perpetually wrinkled because Everything Pisses Me Off.

Someone leaves a dish in the living room? Pisses me off.
Someone doesn't leave a dish in the living room, but instead rinses it and puts it in the dishwasher? Pisses me off - because loading the dishwasher is, in my cranky opinion, apparently beyond the scope of intelligence of anyone in the world - other than me.

No one can win. Winning isn't part of the game. If you fall within my visual range, you are going to Piss Me Off. If you happen to be lucky enough to live with me, you get bonus piss-points right off the bat.

Now, here's the thing. I've worked hard for nearly ten solid years to be a more aware and enlightened person. I've left relationships that weren't spiritually fulfilling. I've meditated, taken classes and seminars, read books - I bought Susun Weed's book on going through menopause the Wise Woman Way. I keep that book next to me all day long as if it is some sort of talisman. I don't want to be a mean, cranky old bitch. Really. I've already sunk a shit-ton of money into learning to be nice. But, when I get up in the morning and get that first horrifying glance at my aging, puffy-eyed face in the mirror, it's as if an alternate personality wakes up inside my head...and that alternate personality hates you. Don't worry, though. She hates me, too.