I go to the doctor and insist something is wrong with me. I tell them all I’m crazy. Certifiably insane. I mean, my husband placing the wrong pajamas on a kid or buying chicken with bones can induce the tears and weeping of a death dirge.

I insist it’s my hormones. I know it is. I’m old. My ovary hurts and I nearly bleed to death every month. So…the medical people draw enough blood to make me stagger away, pale and listless.

The nurse writes a few notes as I ramble and checks my vitals and then says, “Wait. How old are you? You don’t look old enough to be perimenopausal.”

I smile slightly and thank her for the vote of confidence and answer, “I also don’t look like I cuss or occasionally enjoy 90s gangsta rap or have fleeting, intense urges to strangle perfect strangers…but I assure you, I am and I do. Take a look at these elbows!”

I pinch my wrinkly elbow with disdain. She’s not buying my bulldiahrrea. “Ok. Check out my neck. My elbow and my neck totally show my age. Isn’t that ironic? Of all the places…elbows. ELBOWS!”

The 20something nurse is entertained by my middle-aged litany. Her notes probably include;

•Don’t ever act like this heifer.

•Stop procreating at 2.3

Middle-age is so sticky with ironic syrup that it makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. I also insist to my husband that I’m different. Special…more afflicted, even. I suffer more than the average 39 year old. Why?

Because I still have multiple children under age 10. They should all be teens by now, shouldn’t they?

It should be getting easier. They should all be wiping their own buttholes and honing the ability to forage for their own sustenance. But they’re not and they don’t.

The mention of ‘alone time’ literally makes my mouth water. My hobbies include sitting alone and eating candy, searching for the perfect jeans to minimize my muffin but also don’t cut off circulation to my private parts and…well. That’s pretty much it.

No. That’s a lie. I’m incredibly proficient at reading when I should be sleeping and eating when I should be exercising.

I’m usually daydreaming about selling at least one of my children like a puppy at the flea market and half-heartedly planning how to spend the proceeds, but then I’ll see a milk-chocolate smelling, furry little newborn and start making plans to hide it in my purse and take it home to raise as my own.

Because obviously, I need another item to care for.

And so my comedy of ironies dirges on. Day after day, as I catalogue the incongruousness that swirls around me. Yes. That’s a word.

Hair grows thickly and lusciously in areas such as my upper lip, chin and nipples, but simultaneously stops extruding in desirable places like my scalp, eyebrows and eyelids.

I have an ‘at home bra’ and a ‘going out bra’ because the ‘going out bra’ isn’t very comfortable, but it makes my boobs stick out further than my gut, so…

…and that leads us the the irony that my belly continues to inflate whilst my my boobs shrivel with grandeur.

The fat cells in my rear-end are ever expanding and becoming more juicy while the cells in my brain shrink and wither and disappear, apparently like farts in the wind. I don’t know where they go.

My uterus and reproductive system work well enough to torment me with 14 day periods and somewhat regular ovulation, but not well enough to be rational, logical or safely incubate offspring.

My ability and the amount of time necessary to go from serenity to rage improves by about 3 seconds each month, but my ability to see with my eye-holes continues to decline rapidly.

I can see every dimple, pooch and pudge in stunning optical, full-retinal iPhone X detail on every square inch of my face, butt and thighs in the full-length mirror, but I can’t read a sentence in a book without squinting, holding the book at various distances from my face and turning my head left to right several times.

I could save my twin water buffaloes from a burning building while wearing a backpack full of anvils, diapers, milk and regrets, but somehow can’t seem to resist the donut holes, jump on the trampoline for five minutes or talk on the phone.

I can stick my foot directly in my mouth-hole in record time but can’t reach my toes well enough for an adequate self-pedicure that doesn’t involve moaning and heavy breathing.

I can seemlessly recall every single cuss word I ever learned each time I have to deal with another box of Rice Krispies or Goldfishies spread like New Year’s confetti around my living room, but can’t remember my name or birthdate, or those of my children for a doctor’s appointment. I also can’t seem to remember where I put my phone, my wallet or that I ate 5 cookies before bed.

I can chase a three year old twin boy for ten blocks in high heels and a skirt, but I can’t go more than 2.5 minutes on the elliptical without wheezing and sounding like a 95 year old man with emphysema.

I can write an extremely long-winded essay for Facebook all about my personal misgivings and life complaints but have trouble figuring out what to write on a piece of mail that isn’t mine, remembering why I entered a room or how to respond to an IM from someone trying to sell my something I don’t need or want from a pyramid scheme.

Every once in awhile, I get real serious about life and cut out carbs and joy like the plague and pushing the protein and fat hard. Interestingly enough, the numbers on the scale do decrease quite rapidly. If I’m not really careful though, the things that also rapidly disappear are my MUSCLES. As in, the things that make my body move around.

Ya’ll. My body prefers to eat its own necessary tissues and leave the estrogen and toxin-riddled fat behind. Who came up with this?

I’ll do a calf and thighs workout and my neck and left wrist will hurt for days.

Every year that passes, I become more introverted and less interested in other humans whilst my children become excessively extroverted and require things like socialization and friendships and…play dates. *dry heaves*

If you didn’t know yet, I’m a cusser. I know I shouldn’t and I believe it’s a bad thing. But I do it. When my hormones are all effed up and I’m anxious and raging, I say $h!t (or some European version of it) to avoid throat punching others. I know. Gasp and feel offended. We all have our personality flaws.

Since writing is a therapeutic outlet for me, I’ve recently taken to writing bad words with funny spellings. Like $h!t and effin and a$$. I like to call it ‘optical expletives’.

I know it’s pretty much the same. I know people still think the word and visualize it inside their heads and I’m poisoning their virgin brains with my muck. I know I’m setting a bad example for my kids.

I’m also hormonally challenged and suffer more than other 39 year olds because I’m the primary caregiver/teacher to 3 year old identical twin heathens and a 6 year old who is an evil genius and I’m relatively certain those three of my six children resulted from an affair I participated in with the devil that I have no memory of.

Optical expletives are really the least of my concerns most days.

I’m having trouble using my feeling words, okay? Give me an effin break. Just kidding. It’s on my To-Do List:

1. Stop saying d@mnit out loud and using excessive hyperbole and optical expletives in my artistic creations.

2. Lose 20 more pounds of fat and sorrows.

3. Don’t squeeze the jugular of anyone unless I know them and I’m positive they deserve it.

4. Stop using hormonal imbalance as an excuse for my behavior.

5. Stop insisting my life is one big middle-aged irony.

I’ve determined my new life mantra. It is excerpted directly from Thursday night scripture study. 2 Nephi Chapter 18 (cross reference: Isaiah Chapter 8)

Seek the Lord…not peeping wizards.

Watch out for the peeping wizards, ya’ll.