Build a Doomsday Shelter. I’m Back, Bitches.

Oh hey, I’ve started blogging again.  I took six years off.  Needed it.

Let’s start with an easy one.  

The Sleeping Sweating Thing

I woke up in a pool of sweat last night, my skin slick with perspiration from head to toe, the underside of my hair matted against the back of my neck, and my bangs stuck to my forehead like I had just emerged from the birth canal of a walrus.  I was as soaked as the walrus that had, apparently, just given birth to me.  My heart was pounding in my ears, and my throat was as hot and dry as a pizza oven, which also made me immediately crave pizza, and curse the lack of bedside pizza options.  

I threw the covers off the top of me and cursed the person who invented covers to begin with.  Who puts covers??  On the bed?!  I lay there and tried to work up some tears to relieve my frustration, but it turns out I didn’t have enough motivation to do anything besides stare at the ceiling in rage and kick myself for saying that dumb thing that one time in the first grade.  Plus, I prefer to save my tears up for real emotional breakdowns, like when I pull up to the gas pump on the wrong side again and it’s just THE LAST THING I CAN TAKE THAT DAY.  

With the covers thrown off, I am freezing cold within minutes.  Then I curse the person who invented cold.  Why can’t everywhere just be the same temperature all the time??  Why is everyone against me?!  Then I pull the covers back on and fall back to sleep.  Then twenty minutes later I wake up in the pool of sweat again.  

You’re probably wondering what on earth happened last night that brought this all on, that maybe I had that one nightmare where I find out Ryan Seacrest actually IS my spirit animal, or that there’s breaking news that Cheez-Its is going out of business, but nope.  This happens pretty much every night, usually between 3am and 4am.  It’s been going on for over a year now, and I’ve gotta tell you, it puts me in a great mood.  

It’s a fun game I like to call perimenopause.  Control yourself, boys. 

Anytime I talk about my perimenopause, the immediate reaction from literally everybody is that I’m too young for this shit.  For the record, I am turning 42 in a few months.  My mother went through “The Change” when she was, you guessed it, 42.  

Also – and this is a pro tip so you might want to write this one down – when someone tells you they’re having a hard time with a medical/hormonal issue and you tell them they’re not, you are telling them that they are a big fat liar who makes shit up.   Telling someone that they are not experiencing the thing that they themselves are experiencing is a level of bullshittery that makes my blood boil, then freeze, then boil again, so you can just knock that right the hell off.

In case you can’t tell, my swirling hormones have also made me a little more “punchy” these days.  My patience is non-existent.  My ability to tolerate bullshittery is nil.  Oh ho hooo, if you wrong me?  We’ll get into that later, after the next person tries me, which should be about five minutes from now.

What I’m saying is build a doomsday shelter.  I’m back, bitches.  

(Shout out to Thomas Mitchell for designing my kickass logo up top there.  If you are in need of such services, he’s a solid dude and I couldn’t recommend him more.  Hit me up at romcomdojo@gmail.com if you want me to put you in touch with him.)

One thought on “Build a Doomsday Shelter. I’m Back, Bitches.

  1. I love you, and yes, you are absolutely the right age for perimenopause! Everyone that doesn’t agree can just STFU. It’s not a magic switch that gets flipped when an XX turns 55. It is a process! and can last a variable amount of time starting basically whenever the crap it feels like it.

    Liked by 1 person

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