I think I mentioned awhile back that I am afflicted with what I will call, in my winsomely Victorian way, a ladies' complaint. Having just reread Leviticus from beginning to end, I can tell you that if I were an ancient Israelite I'd be the community equivalent of kryptonite; and that's even before the family patriarch tried to marry me off to some jamoke over on the other side of the encampment.
Anyway, it finally got to the point where I felt compelled to drag myself to my doctor, who prescribed me some low-dose hormones and advised me to eat more iron. And even though this is the third time on this particular fun ride for me, I walked out of her office with the hope that This is all going to be over soon!
Well, it's Day Three of the Drug Regimen. It's not over, and now in addition to everything else I've found that my prescription is wreaking havoc with my emotions. I'm sitting here wailing for no reason; I mean, there are plenty of legitimate reasons to weep today, from the plight of Jill Carroll to the ominous aggressive noises coming from the government or Iran to the sad ending to the whale-in-the-Thames story; but I could be watching WWF wrestling and I'd be boo-hooing into my coconut sorbet. When I'm not weepy I'm kick-yo'-ass angry, for no particular reason. And I'm still in wet-dishrag mode, energy-wise. I can't concentrate; can't string words together into coherent sentences. Last night while grocery shopping I got weak and buzzy-headed in the supermarket and almost left my cart in the aisle and bailed; then I got home, lugged in five bags of groceries plus my work stuff, all of which kept falling on the ground and on the floor...I blurted out, "I am never not carrying something! I am so tired of carrying things!"
I wish I were a bear and could just crawl in some nice, dark, enclosed space, fall asleep and wake up in a brand-new season surrounded by sunlight and green, growing things. Which is a nicer way of saying, I'm sick of this shit.