Yesterday I had lunch with my friend Mel, who I haven’t seen in ages. She tossed her bag into the booth, sat down, and promptly said, “Perimenopause is ruining my life.”
I laughed and told her how that very morning my friend Carrie posted on Facebook about what a fucking nightmare perimenopause is and how the medical system fails women at this stage in our lives. The post has 68 comments from women in various stages of this mysterious transition and the overall consensus from most of them women’s doctors were to eat better and lose weight. BECAUSE OF COURSE.
As someone who is currently shedding her uterine lining for the second time in the last 5 weeks, I too am on the WTF is going on with me? train. This super pisses me off because until August, I had gone like five months without a period and I was really hoping I was finally sliding into the menopause home where my useless uterus would finally give up the ghost.
But I did not come to praise or bury my uterus. I’ve come to tell you that I’m going to blame perimenopause of all my newly developed quirks and predilections.
And the newest one is this weird, overwhelming desire to clean obscure and pointless parts of Supergenius HQ. As I mentioned I was recently moved to clean underneath my kitchen sink. Last night it was the bookcase in the living room that used to be my grandpas. Today it was the mailcart that I absconded with when Hell, Inc. closed the Minneapolis office back in aught-eight.
Cleaning the mailcart was more cathartic than I would have thought. I recycled reams and reams and reams of short story drafts and critiques from 2003. I tossed out calendars from 2005-2008 and CD archives from computers I didn’t own anymore. I shredded tax info from more than 10 years ago. I found my birth certificate and the title for Ruby.
Oh, and I also found the issue of Night Nurse my friend, Wondergeek, gave me sometime around the turn of the century. That was a happy thing to find.
I’m babbling. I really have no point. I just wanted to type in this box today.