I’m very proud to report that the post I submitted to the lovely ladies over at Friends You Love about my BFF of 34 years, has been selected as one of the finalists! This is so exciting!
So if you don’t want to burst my bubble and risk me transforming from obnoxious yet adorable narcissist to quiet wallflower over in the corner, I suggest you vote.
And vote often!
So in my last post, I mentioned how I had gone to see a doc for my RLS. I was so busy bitching about his goofy pre-diagnosis prayer and the fact that he wanted me to clarify the symptoms of my RLS in no less than 33 descriptive words, that I forgot to expand upon another of Dr. Neurologist’s annoying little habits: the repetition of my age.
He kept repeating that I am 41.
I know this.
And yet, when I heard it said aloud, over and over again, it caused me to jolt. Over and over again.
“So you’re forty-one, and you’ve had this since you were four?”
“You know, at forty-one, there are a lot of hormonal changes beginning to occur in your body.”
“So at forty-one, you are most probably experiencing some premenauposal symptoms.”
JOLT. JOLT. HEAD DOES A COMPLETE 360.
It’s not that I don’t realize I’m forty-one. It’s just that in my every day, normal activities, I don’t tend to think it, say it, or remember it.
It’s not like I go around saying I’m younger than my age.
As a matter of fact, sometimes it’s fun to point it out to people when they’re making a point of blaming their age for their weight gain, lack of ambition, bad haircut, poor choices, and/or elderly fashion tendencies.
That’s when the bitch factor climbs to a 9 on the 0-10 scale and I proudly proclaim my age, all the while flashing my abs.
However, that little word “premenauposal” said in conjunction with my age, has lead me to wonder if the good doctor is indeed correct.
Maybe I am premenauposal.
That would explain a lot.
It would explain why the mere sound of my husband’s voice provokes thoughts of violence when I’m PMSing.
It would explain why the PMS is no longer the week preceding the one before my period, but extends throughout, the following, and sometimes into the week after that.
It would explain why the week that I’m not PMS, I’m
balling my eyes out teary-eyed over everything from helping my daughter with her math homework (because really, it’s been how many years since I did this shit! Am I really supposed to not only remember it, but know how to teach it to her so that she remembers it in 30 years?) to getting a cold Big Mac.
So maybe I am just premenauposal.
Well, whatever it is, hopefully it passes soon.
All this crying is giving my family the impression that the only thing that makes me happy is the Pillsbury Dough Boy.