God I’m tired.
And just want to be curled up into a ball and enveloped and feel feet with my feet and twine thighs into legs and be held like a mama gibbon snuggles her monkey baby, sans the picking through scalp for mites and bugs.
Having bled for the past 15 days out of 25 (don’t cringe, it’s biology; if it helps, imagine a paper cut or shaving nick alive and active for two weeks, the constant checking and care and blotting and fatigue) and anemia has crept into my otherwise strawberry-ice-cream-Rainbow Brite-life. I’m mostly a lump, a droopy poodle as my Dad called it. Just. Damn. Tuckered.
Not complaining, mind you. I am of the ilk that feeling bad is simply a cosmic partner to feeling good; you can’t have one without the other. Ying and Yang, Ping and Pang, chocolate and dirt. Plus I’m my own best medical resource; I track, I note, I listen to cells and bones and muscles and tendons and seek out help in Western and Eastern bents when needed. Monday very early I have an ultrasound, which makes me giggle because I always think of “ultrasonic” and the rock tumbler my brothers had as kids. You could polish a turd in that thing. The changes down below are merely my body reinventing the cycle. I know ladies whose Auntie’s don’t visit for months, years. Or who knock on the door and punch them straight in the throat, wincing in four-days-out-of-the-month pain. Mine's tolerable, but it will be ever so nice not to sleep with something that feels like a light ballet slipper attached to my underpants (and no more rinsing out the nice pairs in the sink each morning.)
And damnation I miss penetration.
To make up for nutrients lost I slow cooked a beefy pot roast all day, threw in fistfuls of baby bella mushrooms (I prefer the veg to the meat, dirty). If I don’t put the leftovers into a Ziploc easy store container soon I’ll eat the entire thing. My appetite is out of control, tempted to pull back the orange peel paint from the walks for a snack.
I’ll make a big bowl of popcorn (salt-butter-pepper) later, bet you cash money.
Tomorrow I will rise early and climb the mountain, after brushing the salt off my tongue. What is it in salt that leaves the “Where’s that cat that pissed in my mouth?” feeling the next morning?