Don’t you just hate it when your real job gets in the way of what you really want to do with your life?
My day job has been woefully demanding of my time over the past few weeks, which has meant that not only has my writing/parenting/viewing of ‘I’m A Celebrity’ suffered, but my stress levels have escalated to crazy Trump-support proportions.
I can’t complain really because I don’t have little ones demanding my time, (although Kurt still feels the need to text me every hour on the hour from TAFE, usually to ask what’s for dinner), and to be honest, feeling professionally needed does make me feel like a very important person at home and means I can justifiably brush off the old man patronisingly with an ‘I’M WORKING’ superiority whenever he asks me to contribute to anything domestic.
But adding to the increase in my anxiety, (which has already triggered an attractive and professionally humiliating sheen of perspiration permanently on my skin as a result of the current climate of this crazy Australian summer and menopause – listen to Leo), and although I wouldn’t ordinarily bring this up, (being aware of the sensitivities of my few, loyal male readers who will instantly click out of this post in the same way that the old man visibly winces when I ask him to buy period paraphernalia when he does the weekly shop) – the topic of menstruation does seem to be currently de rigeur as a result of one British company’s decision to give women time off for their cramps – and I’ve recently experienced a fucking shark MONTH as well as working like a dog.
There, I said it. I mentioned ‘menstruation’, and you’re still there. Aren’t you????
Just another minor side effect in the lead up to the delights of full-blown menopause, when your uterus begins to implode rather like an old star at about the same time as your ovaries decide they’re truly fucked. Not that I care about my uterus dying – it’s not like I need it anymore – but it’s annoying that it refuses to go quietly. My uterus wants a final moment and it’s having a painful, drawn out death, with all the pomp and ceremony of an Indian funeral, which is tiring when you have to deal with life’s demands at the same time; rather than be allowed to lie in bed, order room service and feel sorry for yourself.
So when, despite the flexibility of my job, (which is wonderful), its demands get backed up and I have a week ahead of me like the one I faced this week, I could really have done without the added complication of the death throes of my vajayjay.
You’ll be relieved to know, no doubt, that I have booked myself in to be put down, I mean see a specialist – she must be a specialist, judging by her charges – for a procedure called a D and C, (something I previously thought was a type of comic superhero or a skate brand), and I imagine that she’ll use some special and very painless vajayjay Dyson suck-monster to extract all that excess menstrual ickiness and allow me to be finally done with reproduction and it’s grossness and say hello to becoming truly, physically old.
What I’d really like, of course, is a full-blown hysterectomy, because neutering animals makes them so much calmer, but I worry about feeling completely asexual then and not even noticing Chris Hemsworth.