Hi!
I know I'm a bit late on this little gem, I've been busy.
Apparently, we now live in a world where it's perfectly okay for world leaders to edit maps with a sharpie. I mean, not only did he edit it, he made his bros back him up about it.
How did I not know that this was an option?! Now that I do, I fully intend to incorporate this into my life.
I can think of countless things that could use this sharpie adjustment. Utility bills, book reviews, credit card statements, pricing in grocery stores, income tax forms....
If we ever get to see his returns, that is if the Bermuda triangle hasn't swallowed them, I wonder if they have been edited in the same way. Surely he's not that dumb... well...
To falsely instill fear in citizens for no reason other than you can't seem to bring yourself to admit a simple mistake.
To have official government agencies put out statements to spank anyone who had the audacity to correct said mistake.
To do all of this, while, with your other hand, you kick survivors of one of the worst hurricanes in history off of the boat that is there to rescue them.
Oh, and now, banning flavoured vape pens. So quick to jump all over this issue. Good on ya.
Hey, if the science backs it up, I'm all for it. If it's a hobby that is causing preventable injury and death, go for it. If limiting or banning this will save one life, it's more than worth it.
Ahem... rapid-fire guns that have ended and destroyed the lives of so many...
I mean, with one sweep of a sharpie... problem solved.
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Okay, next.
The bitch that is menopause.
Some sail through this part of womanhood barely noticing it happened.
I'm genuinely happy for these women. I wish I were one of them.
The physical discomfort is pretty gross. But, it's just that, discomfort. It's not real pain, most of us have dealt with worse, champions of sucking crap up.
Women are Warriors. We have to be,
Before I start getting letters from all the men out there, women being warriors does not make you less than. I can only see life through the lens I was born with. I can adjust for brightness and age, tweek for wisdom gathered through time, but the basic lens stays the same. So save it.
We often deal with the gross physical byproducts of menopause with humour. Why?
Because what else are you going to do?
You chase sleep like a dog chasing his tail, not realizing it's been bobbed off.
You randomly, but often, attempt spontaneous combustion, at its most kind, leaving you as sweaty as a sumo wrestler who just finished a marathon, relaxing in a Turkish sauna. If you're super lucky, you also get to feel like you might puke, pass out, or get arrested for streaking.
Then there's the skin crawly crap, the weird hairs thing, random weight gain in random places, the bloating like a blowfish, brain fog, and so on, and on, and on, and so freakin' on.
We deal with these gross physical realities with humour.
That's the physical. But the physical is only half of it.
The other side, is the emotional side. The havoc this hormonal rollercoaster causes.
We try to set it aside, we don't talk about it as much. Why? Because it's hard, and it isn't funny.
I know I can't be the only one that struggles, at times, with the darker side of this bitch that is menopause.
A butterfly in a hurricane, a whisper in the thunder
There are times when it’s hard not to be swept away by the
force.
Every surface on which I stand quakes with random cadence,
threatening to pull me under.
My tuition, my strength, betray me, making it harder and
harder to stay the course.
The harshness that ravages my thoughts, the utter sadness, the anxiety, I
don’t recognize this me.
The solver, the fixer, decision-maker, caretaker, organizer,
juggler, plate spinner, that is who I am.
This crumbling, weepy, sweat-soaked, shaky, prickly, foggy being,
I don’t know how to be this me.
It’s pretty much impossible to lead my badass life in the
skin of a stunted lamb.
I miss me, I can’t wait for my return on the other side this
menopausal hell.
In the meantime, be patient, I’m still here, puddled beneath
the unsure mess of my remains.
There are days wherein I almost slip into my old skin, feel
almost me, almost myself.
Then it quakes, I break, stripped threadbare, vulnerable
once again, a butterfly in a hurricane.
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Until next time...
May you dig into your warrior, she's still there, find her, hold on.
May you cut yourself some slack, give yourself a break, you're changing, not gone.
May you treat yourself with the same kindness you would a struggling friend.
May you know through this, you will not completely break, it's why we are built to bend.
May you seek the humour, search for the laugh, it's yours to do with what you wish.
May you see that it's okay to reveal that it absolutely sucks, you're not a complainer, menopause is a bitch!
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