At the risk of alienating some of you, I’m going to talk about being a woman of a certain age, with all the attendant drama and bodily functions. If this might bother you, please just keep going about your day and ignore me.
I find it interesting that here, on the approach to fifty-three and entering the twilight of dawning menopause, my “monthly” cycle seems to have come back around to what it was like as I entered through the door labeled “puberty” all those years ago.
Back then, my cycle was a bit erratic, and it meant not really being able to predict when it was coming, as well as hormonal swings that could give you whiplash, zits everywhere (and not just on my face), and pain that I was told was “normal” for whatever that’s worth.
Here today, my cycle is a bit erratic, and I never really know for sure whether I’m going to have one or not. My hormonal swings are not as dramatic as they were at fourteen or fifteen, but they are deeper and last longer. My face is full of zits. The “normal” pain stopped being normal years ago and now can knock me off my feet for at least three days.
Getting old is not for the weak, I suppose.
And maybe, if this is me circling back to the beginning, and that means an end to the semi-regular torture that comes of having a uterus, I can only beg it to move a little faster.
On that note, I should wipe my eyes (yes, I am crying over nothing, why do you ask?), drink my coffee and kick this day into gear.
My love to you all, Readers. And may the Friday be kind.