I’m ready. I’m ready for the Change. Maybe that sounds crazy. The truth is, I feel crazy, or at least I did for about 48 hours.
Picture it: it’s Thursday and I’m home alone. I’m cleaning the bathroom and sobbing. Nobody likes me. I’m a failure at work. My house is digusting. I’m old and fat. I’m messing my kids up. I’m a hot mess. Now normally I pride myself on being pretty logical, level-headed. I’m not a sniveling mess with snot running down my face brandishing a toilet brush.
It all made sense last night when I started – about 5 days earlier than I thought. I had even looked at the calendar earlier that day, inwardly groaning when I realized I’d probably be on day 2 or 3 – the heaviest – while on a major inspection for work next week. No wonder I had felt like Santa Claus, with a jelly belly. I could feel it shake when I walked. I’ve since peed it out.
You would think that after 30 years of dealing with a “monthly visitor” that I’d be used to it. Nope. It just seems to get worse. And now that I’ve closed up the reproductive shop it seems even more aggravating and completely pointless. I hate yelling at my kids and crying for no good reason and feeling like an insane person.
So bring on menopause. I ain’t skeeered.