A Jolly Crone

I think I’m in perimenopause, I think I’m in perimenopause, I keep hearing as a refrain all around me… well me motherfuckin’ too. Except I think I am now in full blown meno, yes, indeed, on my way to becoming a crone. It’s okay. No, it’s really not ok. I sweat bullets most nights. I can’t drink alcohol to self-soothe anymore, it’s not working, and when I eat rich foods, you may as well flatten them out and apply them directly to my belly and hips. Then let me sweat out the excess grease and salt all night long… my fiancé and I are in a full on fight about top sheets right now. Fuck your top sheets.

Anyhoo, I am getting serious about shedding that fifteen to twenty extra pounds that have settled so nicely on my frame in the last three years, along with the microorganisms that come with the extra flesh, they are like drill sergeants, commanding me to eat this, eat more! Rosé in the summer! Margaritas too, what’s one more? Three cookies at midnight? These are from that special bakery…. there are layers, phalanxes of different families of these organisms. The rapidly colonizing ones, they especially don’t like being ordered to evacuate.

I should have known something was up two nights ago when I slammed chocolate chips and peanut butter while standing up in front of my open kitchen cabinets. I should have known something was up when I devoured the rest of the Mexican chocolate ice cream the night…