Perimenopause can go perifuckitself

Sometimes I catch myself reminiscing about how insecure I was when I was in my twenties and thirties. I was so concerned about meeting someone, trying to be someone people liked, and worrying about impressing people.

And then suddenly I had this confidence. I felt good about myself. I didn’t care what people thought. I did things I wanted to do and put myself before everyone else.

Damn that was a great week.

And then things just kind of started to fall apart. My body decided that this contentment just could not last, so it threw me a curveball that I’ve been trying to hit ever since.

Fuck hormones.

Or come back? Is it that the hormones are leaving me?
So they’re all packing their bags and moving out? FINE. You’re too good for me now? Good luck in the REAL world. Motherfuckers.

Since they’ve abandoned me, my metabolism seems to be doing some kind of Benjamin Button bullshit where it’s peaked and is now in reverse. Eventually I’ll be like that purple little bitch in Willy Wonka and need a crane to lift me, but I think that’s at least a few years off.

I have some jiggle in the middle, top to my muffin and junk in my trunk but I’M WORKING ON IT and BEAUTY’S ON THE INSIDE or some bullshit like that.

But on the inside I’m one hot mess (and not like an “I woke up like this” sexy Instagram mess. Seriously, look in my ear. There’s caution tape) and I feel like Sybil with her 16 different personalities. Except the goal there was to integrate them all into one, and then I heard the entire thing was fake, and I don’t think my selves could all get along anyway because I hate some of those bitches with a passion. Plus, 16 is a lot to keep track of and I can’t even remember what I had for lunch (something completely cage free, organic and free range, of course).

*picks half melted chocolate chip off of shirt and eats it*

But these have become the most prevalent ones, or at least the ones I can describe while my attention lasts.

Crazy cleaning lady

Where the hell did SHE come from? It’s like she’s nesting for the day she gives birth to the old lady within. My housekeeping style is more akin to “recently looted” than “white glove” and she pisses everyone off. Papers are tossed in the garbage along with anything else that might be on the floor (sorry, Spot). She switches a load of laundry and suddenly notices all of the lint and dust everywhere. And she MUST clean it. NOW! She gets overwhelmed because then she sees more dirt and more piles and then gives up and becomes…

Crazy crying lady

She’s not much fun either. Sometimes she’s just mopey, but other times she’s full on waterworks. She cries because she’s fat, cries because she’s sad, cries because the moon is full and it just looks so beautiful. She can’t watch Ice Age because she cries when the wooly mammoth remembers his parents getting killed by the stupid humans. She’s doesn’t accomplish much, and she uses all the tissues. Right now she doesn’t hang around long, but I have a feeling she might try and move in for a more permanent position. Last time she left her copy of The Notebook (blech). 

The Bitch

In all honesty, I kind of like her. She says shit I would never say (ok, I would) but she has no regrets about doing it. She’s crass and confident and sometimes hopes a fight breaks out so she has an excuse to kick some ass. She is my best running partner because she can get the energy out and will tear any motherfucker apart who tries to mess with her.

I have to watch her though because her idea of “perceived threat” is sometimes that the kid taking her order (at the cage free, organic, free range) drive thru who didn’t tell her to have a great day. She’s a little combustible.

Crazy non-sleeping lady and Crazy anxiety lady (The twins)

The twins and I have been acquainted for a long time now, although I’ve known Crazy Anxiety lady longer. I didn’t even know she HAD a twin until she made me meet her in the middle of the night once. They both drive me nuts. They work together to give me intrusive thoughts and spiraling negativity.

Like one weekend, I was on an awesome getaway with two friends. We all went into a store. One friend got a phone call about a sick family member, but was off the line by the time I was finishing my purchase. So I went outside to wait for them. And waited. And waited. 

The vision of my friend breaking down jarred my brain. I could see her being consoled by my other friend, sobbing that she just wanted to go home. Maybe even saying she regretted coming in the first place.

I instantly started calculating what time we could be on the road, what time we would get home, did I have to get gas… but maybe she would want to leave early the next day, so what time should I set the alarm, where would be a good place to drive through for coffee in the morning, factor in traffic, what time would we get home…

And then they walked out laughing.

Turns out they were flirting with the guy inside.

The twins laughed and laughed and laughed at me and I flipped them both off.

Crazy IDGAF lady (the kids’ favorite)

Now she is fun, and I like her in small doses. She wears her pajamas all day, throws her ratty hair into an equally ratty bun and doesn’t shower. She says yes to just about everything because she’s too tired/ stressed/ weak/ indifferent to care. Can we get the Simpsons movie? Sure. Can we have Belgian waffles for lunch? Sure. Can we shave the cat? Knock yourselves out.

She plays lots of iPad games and doesn’t clean anything up. She takes naps wherever she wants because she can. I do have to rein her in sometimes because, you know, “child protective services” and “employment” but she’s totally cool and irresponsible.

Now, WebMD— which I’m not supposed to read anymore per doctor’s instructions— tells me that this glorious phase of life could last two to TEN YEARS. What the fuck? How is that considered an acceptable time frame? Imagine if pregnancy was treated that way.

“When am I due?”

“Could be nine months to nine years.”

*ball punches husband*

See? How is that even acceptable? If this keeps on for YEARS, then I may need those fucking corporate function get to know you name tags. “Hello, my name is ___________” and just fill in the blank every day. Or hour. 

So yes, the “change” is starting, the “golden years” are approaching, and there’s a whole new set of commercials and products dedicated to my “condition.” 

But I hate euphemisisms. 

I prefer, “I’m fucked.”

2 thoughts on “Perimenopause can go perifuckitself

  1. I have felt your pain! Nancy is right though ,with the proper hormone replacement meds you can find freedom from all of this. I really do love the way you write . You had me in stitches while reading this-only because I have been there and know it will get better. Love u lots! Hang in !


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