I’m getting old and premenopausal (I’m self-diagnosing here but have an appointment with my MALE PCP to confirm my suspicions and hopefully get some concrete solutions for my FEMALE problems) and my hormones cause a real raucous a couple times a month resulting in hellacious migraines. (Strewn in amongst other very undesirable behavior)
Apparently, I’m a card-carrying member in this frilly fringe of females in our population who are too old and wise to safely incubate offspring, communicate effectively or be rational EVER, but young enough to continue menstruating and ovulating.
How’s that for irony?
I feel extremely resentful of my uterus lately.
“Like, I don’t even need you anymore, uterus.“
But I’m off topic here.
I had endured a headache for ten twelve days when I decided to take a bath composed of a dangerous cocktail of epsom salt, lavender essential oil and the tears of an aged, haggard shell of a woman.
As I shed my uniform of yoga capris and men’s large Nacho Libre t-shirt, I bent over to drop them in the hamper, walked around my room collecting debris and straightened up the bathroom counter, among other random tasks while the bath filled.
I turned to find my deviant five year old smiling like a dirty cat and holding my phone like a runway photographer.
*terrifying grin and silence*
I leapt at her like the cougar I apparently have become and snatched my phone from her greasy little claws.
In horror, I scrolled through her handiwork.
Me, tossing my oily hair in full Birthday attire.
Me, frowning and rubbing my temples to try and mollify my raging migraine.
Me, bending over to put my clothes in the hamper.
Me, butt-cheeks saluting the camera, wielding the remote and turning on Sponge Bob for the 50th time today, to keep the little turd in question busy while I bathed away my sorrows.
You see, I bought Mr. Abernathy the best, most romantic gift this Christmas, so I wasn’t prepared for this scenario.
An electronic, self-locking pin-pad door-knob. Oh,Yes. It is most definitely one of the best items I’ve ever purchased in my life.
I cackle demonically every single time I close the door behind me and hear the tiny, electronic whiz-click sound which indicates the door is locked.
I feel only slightly bad when the 9 and under set wail at the door, begging for hugs and water and help wiping. They frantically push the pin pad numbers and command “door, open” into the keyhole, assuming Siri or Alexa will grant them access to Mommy’s lair.
The only problem is, the five year old discovered rather quickly that the door lock has a manual over-ride. All you have to do is stealthily turn the deadbolt on your way out from the tenth good night hug and you have unmonitored access to the lair.
“Welcome, sex police and naked photographers! Come in and do your bidding!”
She had unlocked the door at some point earlier that morning and snuck in when I was undressing and proceeded to take my phone off the charger and snap some candids of “Birthday Suit Barbie“.
I’m just gonna tell you straight up here. I lost 30 pounds of twin-skin and fat in the last year but there is nothing in the world like a pic sans clothing to remind you of your back dimples, butt cottage cheese and how far you still have to go.
Five year olds really have an uncanny knack for putting us back into our rightful places on the body-shaming totem pole and keeping our small victories in the proper perspective.
Tomorrow, I turn over a new leaf. I will dutifully join the ranks of the fluffy, sweaty and premenopausal lining up to drink protein shakes and sweat to the oldies. Heck, I may diffuse my beloved oils which will undoubtedly cure my allergies and make me lose ten pounds without so much as a fart.
Thank you, Harleigh Jean for your unfiltered glimpse into my inner soul and front row seat to my above-the-butt, back-dimple concert.
And, if you clicked on this story because you thought I’d post the photos, you are cray-zay. I may tend to over-share, but even I have limits.
Please pass the self pity. *sniff*
Update before the posting of this story:
On Daddy’s way home from work, we had a little texty time.
Then Big Daddy arrived home and we were chatting about the naked photos yet again, because it was apparently the apex of my existence on this particular day.
Harleigh joined us and this is how it went down:
Harleigh: Hey, Daddy. I took pictures of mommy. Did you see them?
Mommy: No he sure did not. I erased them and no one will ever see them again.
Daddy: I already know what you look like naked. I’ve seen it all.
*Harleigh giggles demonically*
Mommy: Yes, and I’m horrified by that. I have nightmares about what you’ve seen.
*reflects sadly on all the vaginal births and one momentous c-section where his man-children were ripped from a gaping hole in my abdomen*
Harleigh: I couldn’t send them because I don’t have a fingerprint.
Daddy: *laughs* who were you going to send them to?
Harleigh: *shrugs* I don’t know. The internets?
Harleigh: …or Mommy’s old boyfriend?
*hysterical laughter followed by crickets as we all consider this*