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.