The eight sided, fire engine red sign is held up in my mind. Maybe it is progress that I'm capable of catching my negative responses to even the simplest things. However ... you knew this was coming, right? This past week has been very trying.
Well, facing my increasing age is not something that weighs heavily on my mind. Getting older means I'm still here on planet Earth. Good, right? Yes, but as a woman it's often a battle of the hormones.
Guys, this might be the point where you wince or stop reading. It is your decision, but it could get graphic. I'm writing this from the top of my head and knowing which direction I'll take is a mystery. If you choose to be brave and hang out for the duration, thank you for making like Alan Alda.
My age, which is 45, doesn't show on my face. Genetics have granted me few wrinkles and decent skin tone and complexion. As a little girl I'd admire my mother as she slathered Second Debut moisturizer to her face and neck. I learned that moisturizer is key. Unlike my beautiful mother, I do not smoke. Diet Pepsi is not my primary source of hydration. What is increasingly obvious regarding my age is what I consider my uncontrollable hormones. Monthly uprisings cause me to question and doubt myself. Being awakened at night feeling like someone switched the air conditioning off and the heat on. The ceiling fan is switched to full speed after flinging the covers from my dampened hide. Dear God! Help me get through this.
What's most difficult about this ever present change of life is not the flashes and night sweats. Not even the sudden urge to burst into tears moments after wanting to rip someone's face off is nearly as damning as questioning myself. Self-doubt becomes a heavy anchor tethered to my being and drags me to the deepest, darkest, cavernous place.
Logically, this lack of self-esteem is limited to the week before the dam breaks, if you know what I mean. Hormonal surges get a choke hold on logic, unfortunately. I'm not one who rushes to the doctor and begs for a magic pill to make me all better. Please, don't immediately suggest it because I will toss a major league POO-POO! upon it. Such things are a last resort in the Book of 'Riss.
Normally, I think I manage to have a handle on the overwhelming senses and urges. The week of August 15-21 literally kicked my ass. Mentally and physically. To put it bluntly, I felt like shit. From the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes it was crystal clear that it wasn't a case of mind over matter. Not one spot of me was left out of the maelstrom. Sometimes it sucks to be a middle aged babe. I had little patience for bullshit. Give me a real problem to solve or offer consult, but don't whine, piss and moan about someone's petty crap! Mole hills turned into mountains! I wanted to toss my cell phone into the river and shove my iPod earbuds in my ears so deeply to drown out the never ending parade of wah, wah, wah. I had my own issues piling up and burying my spirit.
What stinks about the entire thing is that all I wanted to do was lock myself in a room and chill. That, of course, is not what could be executed. What did I do? I put on a happy face and tried to see my way through the chasm of my hormonal misfortune. The throbbing, pulsating three day headache had to be ignored because missing work was not an option. It occurred to me that working out the tension would be best. Not this time around. It weakened me and even with the minimal effort I felt consumed by perspiration and exhaustion. Nausea set in.
My son was sick for the first time in over a decade. We're talking full blown, call the haz/mat clean up crew projectile vomiting in the bathroom. Poor kid wasn't even aware what that sudden urge to purge felt like. Home alone, he ran to the bathroom with only a moment to spare his stomach contents from expelling in the dining room. So, with that in mind I considered that I, too, was getting the bug he had. He was overcome with fever. I was not. Plus, I knew Auntie Flo was just around the corner.
With all of this being said it has been made abundantly clear that while I say age is nothing but a number, it is significantly more than candles on a birthday cake or a crow's foot or two around my green eyes. It is official. Marissa Rapier has reached the era of being hormonally challenged.
Here's a bonus side note. I received a free music download on the package of tampons purchased the other day. Woo! That almost takes away the angst ...................................... NOT!
But I do dig freebie tunage.
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