Tag Archives: cramps

Cowboys Playing Superman At Ninety

27 May


Three sessions of Pilates today. 

My abs feel like they’re on fire. 

My legs are jelly.

…I’m seriously contemplating a fourth.

Apparently I’m into sadism at the moment.

I made the mistake of sitting down to watch part of a movie at one point getting up again to go pee, and was seized with the most amazing case of 90-year-old-hobble you have ever seen.

…Something like the exaggerated bow of a cowboy’s lollup, as if the horse were stuck permanently between his legs, and the bent-over (almost in half) incapacity to stand up of my once polio-ridden grandmother…in her later years.

…Much swinging of the the arms helps.  Think of it like swimming through the air.

My every muscle seemed to have been seized and viciously contracted…like a full-body cramp.  So naturally, I figured the best way to loosen that up would be another session of torture.

…Which totally worked.

I can stand up now and everything.

…Course that was about five minutes ago, when I first sat down to write this.  It’s prob’ly all gone to hell again.

…I am beginning to see why fitness breeds fitness. 

It has nothing at all to do with adrenaline. 

That is shit. 

…It has everything to do with the ability to walk like a grown up human to the bathroom and go pee.

That is all.

I don’t even wanna know what my body is gonna feel like in the morning.

…Maybe I’ll do some yoga before bed, to stretch it all out so I’ll be able to actually recline in the lateral position and not have to sleep hugging onto my knees all night long.

Vicious cycle.

Fitness bastards.

…Meanwhile, I found this new pose on the internet that’s for like full body tension and balance.  It’s kind of awesome.  (Not at all.) I call it my “Superman” pose.  It goes like this:

Prostrate on the yoga ball at your middle.  And slowly, and carefully, attempt to raise all limbs like you did as a kid on the feet of your mom/dad/uncle/older cousin, and “fly”…trying your best not to face plant into the hard wood floor.

I’m close to success.

…By “close” I mean “not at all.”

When I actually get the guts to let go of the ground, I teeter for about half a second before everything morphs into slow motion as I either list to the side, colliding with the couch, or shoot my hands out last second to save my forehead from cracking open on the floor.

…Meanwhile, mid-pose (for that whole half a second) my insides quake and contract at rapid speed…much like a spectacular bout of puking-prep just before one hurls. 

It’s honestly a lot less fun than I remember playing “Superman,” being

…Just as like an FYI to cross off the list of things you may have somewhere, that you regret no longer being able to do, as a grown up.

You’re welcome.


Pirates, Paperwork, Pasta, & Polish Sausage

2 Apr


Up before the rooster again, for pill-taking purposes.  Heating pads galore.

…Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.

…A bowl of pasta sprinkled with Moroccan chili spice, tossed with Polish sausage, and a spinach salad for dinner.

…A rehearsal that, for all the world, felt like the first one after five days off, with a bunch of new props, and the semi freak-out realization that we open in 10 days.

…Cloudy contacts all the way home.

…And why the hell did I hit the scale when I promised myself I wouldn’t until hormone water retention was past? 

…And why the hell, most especially, after a dinner containing half of Europe in my guts?

When was the last time I took pain pills?

All the past three days of 5 ams and 10 ams and 2 pms and 5:30 pms and 7pms, 10 pms and 1 ams, have bled together in one long string of pill-taking that honestly leaves me baffled on when and how the last batch was achieved.

I hate pills.

…And the scouting for pretzels or whatever to eat them with…

…When it’s still dark out…

…So I don’t puke all over myself…

…From upset tummy…

…Caused by the pills…

…Which are supposed to make me feel better.

So goes the medical profession.

…Their own special brand of “job security.”

…And speaking of medical professions:

Have spent past two days pirating Call the Midwife, Season 2.

…While paperworking.

As always, when I pirate, I feel bad and immediately kill each episode I rip, post-mortem.

…And add it to my Amazon wish list for actual purchase.

…But this way I still get to watch it when I want to…

…While poor.

…Without having to wait.

…Because I don’t feel like it right now.

…And I didn’t feel like it for the new Jonathan Creek, either.

…But I mean: for fucks sake, it has Joanna Lumley in it.

I’m not WAITING for that!

I’m WATCHING that!

Hells yes I am!

…And then I’ll put it on my list of things you should buy me for my birthday and stuff. As like, a sponsor. Or enabler. But it has nothing to do with food, so that’s okay.

…And speaking of food:

I want my pillow worse than a brownie fudge sundae right now.

…So I’m gonna have it.

…It’s way cheaper in calories, for one thing.

…And I’ll be gladder for it around 4:30 when the cramps begin to start beating on me again.

Yes: “Gladder.” I said it.


Continual Search Of…

31 Mar


Trying to find comfort from cramping all day.

…Heating pads, countless cups of tea, a walk…sitting, standing, laying…pills, fizzy waters…nothing has helped. 

Perpetual discomfort all day, and it’s ramping.

…So am off to bed, in desperate need of sleep.

Tomorrow: month-end completion, and weekend sells hit.

I already just wanna cry.

…But I could take it, if I could just get some sleep.


A Letter To Mrs. Johnson

26 Aug


Mrs Johnson:

What kind of person says they’re gonna show up three days ago and then doesn’t until today, banging on the door at 5 A.M.?  I do have a “life” you know, and just hanging around for whenever is “convenient” for you isn’t in the job description that they handed me in that class they gave us in the fourth grade. You know, the one where all the boys went into Mr. T’s room and all the girls got sorted into Mrs. L’s?  Here is what they did tell us:

* She will come every month, 28 days from her last visit.
* She will be a messy, uncomfortable, opinionated and often grumpy house guest.
* At time she’ll be downright unreasonable and emotional.
* Here’s all the stuff you need to have around when she visits.

…It took three years before you decided to show up at all.  Then one summer, right as I was changing into my swimming suit, BAM! there you were!  Instantly!  Like a very sick and twisted kind of Genie.

“What the eff?!” I thought.  “Oh God, I’m dieing!!!”

…This was only a momentary panic. A totally natural reaction for a hypercondriac who was also sure she had “caught” appendicitis from that one girl in school last year, might get accidental explosive bowel syndrome because people never wash their hands after pooping, choke to death at any moment while eating alone, or get gangrene from a paper cut.  I was so used to launching into immediate worst-case-scenario panic at moments like this, that I had (only for a second…or twelve) totally forgotten that little discussion from all those years ago. (Because dog and and kid years equal roughly the same until you turn 18… so that was like 21 years ago, in me-time.)

…But then I remembered.

…And I called my aunt in (at whose house I was, at the time.)  And was like, “Um. So.  Don’t tell anyone…but I’m either dieing of Cancer or I just started my period.” 

And she hugged me. 

For a second I kinda started to panic, like this was the beginning of “goodbye” or something…but then she gave me this odd smile-look when she was done, and started ruffling through the bathroom drawers to “hook me up” with some stuff…like my own personal period Pimp.

…What I didn’t know at the time was that the hug I thought was of pity at first, and then turned into some sorta mini-tribal moment of succession to womanhood…was actually just a hug of pity after all.  Cuz she knew what was ahead of me at the time, and I didn’t. 

It wasn’t so much the, “Oh!  You have achieved womanhood now, and your body has just this instant transitioned into a crazy self sustainable life force garden, where people can be made and grown and harvested, and the entire human race is now an intrinsic part of who you are and the magical capabilities you hold, with an awesome responsibility of our future, just south of your belly button.” 

…Later, I realized it was more like, “Oh, you poor little sunofabitch.  God I’m glad you at least made it to 13 before it happened to you.  With the women in your bloodline, this shit is just going to get unbearable…heaving up meals, rolled up in the fetal position for hours at a time, yelling at the burnt dinner, bursting into tears for no reason whatsoever.  And those’ll be the good months.  I better get you some drugs, pronto.”

She was at a vantage point, like a great Seer on a mountaintop, looking down at me in that little beginning valley being like, “Whelp.  Start trekin’ kid.  I wish I could tell you that once you climbed this hill you’d be done, but there’s like forty years more of ’em ahead.”

I am now on my nineteenth anniversary of that date, after climbing more fucking mountains than the Hobbits, each one a little more steeper than the last.  And I’m still less than halfway through.

…If only they put me in Mr. T’s room that one day, none of this shit wouldn’t have happened!  But it did

And I’m here now.

…So that is the little scenario story of “me,” Mrs. Johnson.  That is how I came into this gig…plopped into this valley with a tiny pack of supplies and told to “walk up.” Every month.  For maybe the rest of my life.  Because at the rate I’m going, surely I’ll bleed to death or my tubes will explode before I ever reach the end of this journey into Menopause.  Which I’m told is this whole hell of a lot of fun too, by the way.

…What I’m saying is: We came to an agreement nearly two decades ago, that like it or not, you will materialize like a fucked up kind of Mary Poppins just floating in on the wind every month.  I will put you up.  I will go along with all the daily demands and requirements that having you around insists upon (and they are never rad things like jumping into paintings or dancing on roof tops…more like puking into trash cans, drinking Pepto like a thing of orange juice, and popping more pills than an acid junky.) And at the end, you promise to eventually leave me the fuck alone, and go bother someone else.  What we DIDN’T agree on was you acting like some teenage floozy just popping up at random hours around dawn, three days late or more, greeting me with a solid punch to the ovaries when I open the door, and taking over my entire day when I had other things I had planned to do.

Mrs. Johnson: You are an asshole.  Just so we get that straight.

…And would it have killed you to stop somewhere and bring a thing of chocolate on the way?  I mean: really.


Oh The Misery, Oh The Hysteria

8 Jul


Classic complete waste of a Saturday, as The Misery arrived four days early and on a sunny day. 

…Because that’s always the kind of trick she pulls, Mrs. Johnson, every month popping up like she owns the place; pitching camp for a week in my guts (and general baby-cooking area), laying waste to the entire region.  Then, after about five days of munching, punching, kicking, hot flashing and general nausea, she departs to visit another sister of Womanity. Because for some reason the bitch just can’t get around to finding her own damn place to live, and leave us all the fuck alone.

The older I get, the worse her visits. 

…The last couple years have seen fit to add extreme lower back pain, extra-intense bloating, and hot flashes to the list.  And the last thing you wanna hear while cramped, folded in the fetal position, bloated out of anything not containing elastic, zitting out, and generally self-disgusted, is that you should just “get used to it.” 

…This morning’s phone conversation with Ma, (though attempting to add solace) only seemed to exacerbate the situation…going something like this:

(I grog-dial the phone, while shooting a dose of Pamprin.)

Ma: Well, good morning!

Me: I feel awful. I feel terrible.  I just wanna puke.

Ma: Oh. Hangover?

Me: Worse. Mrs. Johnson.

Ma: Again? Already?

Me: It’s like, “she knows.”

Ma: How’d you sleep?

Me: Didn’t.

Ma: Pills?

Me: Yes.

Ma: Eat something?

Me: Crackers.

Ma: Heating pad?

Me: The usual.* (* Note: ” the usual” is a cocktail consisting of two Pamprin, a shot of Pepto, two crackers, a heating pad while pinch-hitting a hot tea/fuzzy water chaser.)

Ma: Need anything?

Me: I sweat through all my clothes again.

Ma: Well, that happens.

Me: When you’re fifty.

Ma: For some women, it starts earlier.

Me: It’s crap.

Ma: You’re just starting pre-stuff, is all…

Me: I’m only thirty!

Ma: Well…thirty-two.

Me: Some people might consider that their prime!

Ma:  …That’s your forties.

Me: How the hell is “thirty” supposed to be the new “twenty,” when your junk is already starting to rust up and fall apart?!

Ma: There’s nothing wrong with your…”junk.” It’s not a plumbing issue. Just hormones. 

Me: Well, someone should tell my “just hormones” this ain’t Madrid in August.

Ma: You should see the Doctor. They’ll give you a little patch…it’ll be fine.

Me: I’m not even on the wrong side of my early thirties and I’m already launching peri menopause?!

Ma: Oh it’s fine! It doesn’t really mean anything.  You can have it for something like a decade before you even launch into the real deal. Lookit your Aunt M…and Aunt L…and Aunt G…

Me: That’s supposed to make me feel better?!


I was completely belligerent about the entire ordeal, and by the end of the conversation had given up my “girl card,” cursed and disowned my entire lineage of early menopausal-launching female ancestors, refused flatly to give a flying shit that the sun HAD come out today, and defied all reason by announcing loudly, that the cramps could, “go fuck themselves!” Cuz I was gonna go get, “the biggest fuckall coffee invented!” And, “heap it with twelve kinds of sugar and chocolate sauces!” And, “drink that shit till my gut explodes!” Cuz, “then they’d be sorry!” (The world in general.) Cuz, “it’s what they fucking deserve!” And, “I just HOPED THEY WERE HAPPY ABOUT IT!” Because they were all, “ass-hat-wearing period-Nazi’s, forcing me to commit craze-induced menstrual-suicide just to get even with them!”

…To which Ma said: “Oh, will you pick me up one too?”

It really was the least she could do. Wallow with me in my hated solitude.  I mean, if she’d never birthed me and passed on all those night-sweating, cocktail-needing, pain-hurling genes, I’d never BE in this position, now would I?!  WOULD I?!

…So I hung up the phone, plucked another dry shirt from my drawer, and moaned my way to the bathroom lookin’ like Quasimodo on a bad hair day.  Then moaned my way to the closest Starbucks.  Then moaned myself to her house, where we sat watching Joss Whedon shows all day, tween “cocktail” tosses, and general alternate “other complaining.”

…And now I’m home, bitching it all to you…while sweating through another shirt, trying not to pick at this gigantic should-have-its-own-zipcode zit on my chin.

In short, here is a tip, straight from me to the fellas out there in our television audience: Don’t ever ask why women are assholes during their monthly Misery. It should be blatantly obvious at this point that we’ve earned the goddamn right! We hurt! We’re pukey! We look like shit!

…And some idiot in the Tampax marketing department is slobbering, “Have a happy period” on all their crap, which we’re FORCED to buy, EVEN though we know the politics of it is TOTAL SHIT.

…Being an asshole at this moment, is the only thing we get.

So deal with it.


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