Holy Mackerel

There I was, wheezing, as I tried to keep up with everyone else. Give up I did not, however. I carried on, trudging wearily, slapping one tired foot in front of the other on the hard cement floor, focusing on the prize: my dignity. Clearly, I didn't get the prize, because I have no dignity left . There I was, in my gym class, which all we paramedic-wannabes have to take in an effort to get into good enough shape to be able to lift and carry ill people and equipment, all while eating an ice cream cone, or possibly that salami sandwich that you just found stuffed in the side pocket of your pants. You know, guys, it's not easy keeping up with a class full of mostly 20-somethings, especially when your mammary glands keep hitting your knees. There they all are, gleefully skipping around the room as if they're in a field of daisies and they're lazily making their way toward their lover. And there I am, my ass slapping the backs of my thighs as I grunt my way around the...

What a weekend. Got rid of the kids on Friday. Winter camp for them. Lazy weekend of Cheetos feasting, old movie watching, and Facebook surfing was planned for me while I waited for my antibiotics to kick in. And then maybe a nice dinner out or a movie with Mr. Handsome, depending on how I felt. Instead, Mr. Handsome worked. And worked. And worked some more. And I. Did. Nothing. Well, I did watch about six straight hours of The Real World, Brooklyn , which just made me that much more depressed because I was reminded over and over and over again how old I really was, and that I would never again be as young and perky as those gorgeous 20-year-olds on the television screen. Not that I ever was in the first place. But I did have a nice ass and legs. Now, the spider veins double in number every time I look down at my cellulite-infused legs, and my butt cheeks, when not encased in tightish pants, flap loudly against my ankles. And while we're on the topic, what's with my leg...

When your ass flaps against the backs of your legs, you know it's time to hit the gym. And, as luck would have it, I looked up "ass flap" in the dictionary, and guess who I saw? That's right. Me. With my ass, hitting the backs of my legs like there's no tomorrow. There was no better time than Saturday to witness this amazing event, as I spent the better part of the day gardening. That's right. I gardened my entire front area, including three largish pots, the entire front of the steps, and I also put down a bag full of black mulch, because I saw it at someone's house last week and liked it enough to remember it. I thought it looked awesome, and would therefore make my house and garden look awesome as well. That's how it works, isn't it? As I tilled the soil and got my hands extremely dirty (well, mostly my right hand, because I tend to use one hand more than the other, and I also tend to unconsciously keep one hand clean when doing dirty tasks. No...

I started a job Monday that is supposed to last two weeks. I'm not, however, sure I'm going to last. Keep checking the obits. I am doing some filing for an organization. This is my way of contributing to society as well as to the family, while I take a mental health break from my life as I've known it for the past four years. Filing should probably be the most laidback, easygoing, mind-numbing job there is. And it is. Until you notice you wore the wrong pants to your first day at work. By "wrong pants", I do not mean pants that are inappropriate for the office. What I mean specifically is pants that, although they look amazingly awesome and make my buttocks look very firm, they tend to fall down and do this ... ...when I do this. And I did this a lot . Not only once. Oh no. A more accurate number would be, maybe, 2,304 times. Because what I was doing all day long was standing, reaching for files, pulling said files out of shelving unit, setting file down on litt...

I've been out of commission now for two days, and I hate myself for it. Lying on the couch or in bed, clutching my lower abdomen and writhing in pain, nauseated. Ahh, I'm such a sight to behold. It's a wonder Mr. Handsome will still even look at me or want to hold my hand or give me a kiss. Last night and all day today, in addition to the gut pain, I've had a migraine that is finally starting to lift, but is still threatening to return, so it will be more medication tonight. Thank the lord for codeine. I've never been a healthy person, but the past seven months have been outrageously disgustingly overridden with illness, both physical and mental. Perimenopause has been anything but easy for me. Coupled with abdominal issues I am dealing with, and arthritis that seems to be worsening as I get older, it's no wonder I don't feel like getting out of bed most days. I've been feeling so unwell that I've had to put my career in real estate on hold, which h...

Mr. Handsome, groping me around the waist: Oops, sorry. I didn't know your breast was that low. Me: It's not my breast. It's my stomach...

Once I hit my 40s, which was really only nanoseconds ago (honest!), I began to notice a definite change in my appearance. See here and here for examples, if you dare. What has really hit me hard, however, is the change in my skin, especially on my face. I never had wrinkles to speak of until the 40s era reared its ugly head. First, it was around the eyes. Very noticeable, very awful wrinkles that not only appeared overnight in the corners of my once-beautiful green eyes, but also bagged wrinkles that accumulated underneath my once-beautiful green eyes. These wrinkly bags are so noticeable and so large that I look part-elephant. No, they're not laugh lines, and no, I should not be proud of them as I am of my stretch marks. No. These are just plain old elephant-skin bags of wrinkled skin, hanging from tethers under my eyes, like a deflated hot air balloon that's begging to land. Soon after, the jowls began their downward dance. Now, most of my friends and family poo poo me whenev...