The Flesh Writes the Story
Biology exacts a grip on the soul.
Hey dudes, what’s crackin? I wrote this joint back in March. This one goes out to all the ladies whose flesh drives ‘em to think (and do?!) crazy shit.
Has my husband even considered planning a celebration? My podcast drops in a week. It is the most substantial work of art I have created in years. The podcast is the only time I’ve ever scored a “deal.” He’s seen me toil through pregnancy and the infancy of our son throughout the production of this art. I have accomplished a Herculean feat for which I have received no recognition. I’ve told him explicitly to CELEBRATE THIS OR I WILL BE GRAVELY OFFENDED. Yet there are no signs of an event on the horizon. This motherfucker has never cared sufficiently about my art, come to think of it.
But then again, in this moment, neither do I.
It’s been a week like this. A week not caring about things that matter.
A week outraged at imagined offenses.
A week furious that the Chapstick rolled off a table. Practically glibly it fell! After I set it CAREFULLY upon the table!
A week feeling violent when my dog barks.
A week in which none of the usual fixes work.
Dance class tonight. But I can’t be assed to practice. I feel weak. Also old. Is it bad to worry about being old? Because I am worried yet again about being old.
Anxious feelings race through my veins, gathering in my chest, kicking up dust in my mind.
Speaking of dust in my mind:
I’m supposed to be working. I pay good money for a babysitter so that I can work. And yet here I am, penning an incoherent screed as a pressure valve for my feels.
I have never been like this:
Pre-menstrually insane.
Though I’ve been sad many times before in this long life, it’s this cause-less sadness and lethargy that feels alien, like an illness, like a weighted blanket thrown over my soul. A layer of obfuscating static painted atop my psyche. There is no reason to be sad. Worried. Fucking angry at my assumptions of what people might or might not be doing.
Speaking of worried: my business.
The sum of money I must generate to support not only my family but also my team looms over me at all times like a grinning god of destruction, sickle lifted, waiting for my mistake. Waiting for my A-minus. Ready to drop the blade the moment I mildly miss a mark. Did I mention my job is tied up to some degree in my “sexiness” but also I think I might be on the verge of fuckin MENOPAUSE so how the fuck can I EVER be sexy again? Hold my funeral now.
Damn, I was worried about money and now I’m worried about death; at least I remain versatile.
What’s wrong with me?
My life is good.
My husband, despite the fact that I called him a “motherfucker” in paragraph one, is good.
The kids: good. The house, good. The dog is fourteen and shows no signs of stopping before twenty-five. He’s good, too. Everything is good.
The problem is—
I started my period today.
I’ve felt insane way for a week already.
My mind, hijacked. My passions, numbed. My confidence, zapped. My motivation, nonexistent. This is not me. I am driven. I wake up at 5:53 am.
But this is me, because this—
is my body.
My body dictates this life, over and over, each moment, each day.
Most of the time, we are unaware of this.
But other times—times that hurt, that break, that crack open the illusion of a soul independent from this body—
Times like these, we become again aware.
I never “felt” like a woman.
There was never a mood, a taste, a desire that created a sense of womanhood in me.
Only, instead, this body.
This body that became pregnant as the unexpected result of the expected behavior of married people.
The pregnancy that disabled me entirely from all production both creative and otherwise for a good three months.
The birth that almost killed me and now leaves me peeing in my pants when I sneeze. Me! A SEXY WOMAN! Peeing in my pants!
The baby that this body made that then began to run my life when the pregnancy had finished with me.
And now, these hormones—these simple hormones—that trigger my monthly cycle, and also, completely alter my personality and my abilities.
We humans think ourselves gods, poets driving meat suits.
But the flesh—
The flesh writes the story.
DROP A COMMENT IF YOU FEEL ME.
The "incoherence" is true clarity. Hormones rule. But we are blessed. Nature gave us this opportunity and a reason to be completely irrational and sometimes, it is the perfect response to the mystery of life. And if you choose it, you will be sexy until the end of time. Menopause may put an end to your ability to breed, but it doesn't change who you are. I think it actually made me better, and definitely wiser.
I feel this as a man, so when I think about how much more intense it is for women, all I can do is raise my glass and tell you, respect. Big ass respect.