The angst I feel at this time of my life is not becoming.
I mean sure, it was cute when I was a teenager – even somewhat adorable in my 20s! But firmly ensconced in my 50s? Muddled, anxious, crabby, lonely, and sweaty, maybe.
I dislike my moodiness and have taken to faking jocularity in public. Hi! How are you! Me? Oh, fine, fine. You know, it certainly is hot out! That’ll change soon enough, huh? OK – yeah, you, too! Talk to you later!
Truth be told, I sailed through my teens. Aside from being unreliable, contemptuous, snide, disagreeable, and sneaky, I was not an entirely bad person, despite what you may read in my yearbook.
And now, it’s all I can do to keep the scowl off my face.
How does this work now? How do I go from loving the people around me to secretly wishing that they’d, oh, you know, drop dead?
I keed! I keed! Please don’t drop dead!
Argh. I need someone much, much larger than me to wrap me in a blanket, swaddle me tight, and beam lovingly into my eyes until I fall asleep.
Followed by treats, words of praise, and a steak, medium-rare.
I am in the middle of writing this when I get a text from a relative: I’m crabby and hormonal and a complete monster. What do I do?
What do you do?
Oh, honey. You sit here next to me.