Let’s work backward from the annoying old lady shall we?
Given that I, myself am an annoying old lady according to my kiddo’s generation, you can take this with a grain of salt.
DO NOT ask forty-something year old women if they are married and have a family (in the same breath). If you must ask, you clearly don’t know me well enough to ask and clearly it is none of your damn business darling.
First of all, it does not endear us to you, and second of all because you’re likely to get an answer that confuses your out of touch moronic-question-asking priorities. My answer, “No, and yes,” with a smile that silently said, “All the better to eat you with you gauche old cow“, was clearly confusing. So, I did what I thought most prudent under the circumstances; spun on my well turned-out heels and walked away.
Women are not baby-factories or defined by their marital status any more. We have credentials, and likely a better grip on our own personal world of finance, family and friendship than any man whom may have coddled previous generations of women through life. We generally do not subscribe to the rule of, the bigger the sin, the bigger the diamond. We conduct ourselves with discretion and expect our wonderful men to carry themselves the same way.
We also have PMS.
I don’t care what we think big-pharma is pulling over our eyes. I already KNOW they’re killing us while making trillions of dollars off of our unnatural lifestyles. What I also know is that I get tired, bitchy, and a tad prone to tears when mother nature comes to collect on all the party time down under. Whilst preaching the benefit of some wonder-contraceptive today, my body was secretly laughing.
“Maybe you’re just PMS’ing”, a pal said when I told her I was feeling a bit edgy.
“Nah, I don’t PMS. I was a skeptic, but have this new wonderful-better-than-gawd-birth-control, ” I giggled like a mad woman, “I don’t get periods any more.” Ah, yes, the beauty of aging. Clearly that was the confidence of over two decades of successful birth control and no unwanted pregnancies speaking, not my rational self.
But mother nature can be even more cruel than little old ladies who judge you according to whether or not you’re married and as miserable as they are. Mother nature promptly, and without warning tapped me on the head with her magic-menstruation-cudgel. Wonderfreakingful.
The only thing that could possibly have been better is if I were wearing brand new panties and white short-shorts in a canoe a thousand miles away from a tampon, which, just in case you’re wondering, has happened to every Canadian woman who has ever had an in-the-great-outdoors-adventure.
The only good part about my day was getting home before dawn, and actually having time to run some errands and see my kiddo. Who, incidentally hates me by default because he’s a teenager. “Are you ever actually going to take me driving?”. I think he may have even made eye contact while he spoke, so it must have been really important to him.
It’s a good thing he asked after I’d had a chance to load up on some vintage vino, with one particularly lovely Shiraz from the Southern Barossa Valley which was silently wooing me from the trunk like a secret lover who had managed to squirrel away a few hours for passionate love-making..
So there you have it. After having some old bag call into question my value as a woman because I’m not with-band-on-ring-finger, having the equivalent of a rogue-wave-in-a-mud-puddle anomaly of a period arrive, and have to sit through a driving lesson with my teenager, I am finally resigning myself to being completely and utterly in the moment.
It doesn’t hurt to have some classic jazz and a lip-smacking, seductive wine to help me get my Zen on. So long as no strangers ask me any more judgmental-quasi-Christian-have-you-been-saved-questions, we all just might make it out of this week alive. Cheers to you my fellow fearless ladies. May your wine racks overfloweth!