For a few weeks now I’ve been a real pain in the ass.
Actually, for several decades now, I’ve been a real pain in the ass. So what I mean to say is that, for a few weeks, on top of that general usual pain in the ass, I’ve been an extra pain in the ass — really super extra irritable, flying-off-the-handle at the slightest thing kind of pain in the ass. Enough so that even I’ve noticed it and felt compelled to think about apologizing for it, except that I’m not entirely convinced that it’s my fault, I think it might be somebody else’s fault, that somebody might be expecting too much of me, but I’m not sure because somewhere along the way I seem to have lost perspective on what is too much to expect from people around me, both real and virtual, self and Other.
It could be that I’m still angry about what happened the past few weeks on the internet. That would be the easiest explanation.
But I don’t think that’s it, because despite all the hand-wringing around here lately — despite all the processing I do here, I don’t actually take it that much too heart. I tend to write about it here so that I can avoid it bleeding out into my real world life too much. I like to self-flaggelate on the blog so that Mr. Right-Click doesn’t come home from work to a scene like the one with that priest from The Da Vinci Code.
Plus there have been some other . . . symptoms that I don’t really want to get into right now.
So I decided that what must be happening, at 36-going-on-37, is that I must be starting perimenopause. Because that has to be the only likely explanation. And I’m sure this has nothing to do whatsoever with my fear and semi ambivalence about the prospect of getting pregnant again.
Oh yeah. That.
Remember how I was talking about that a while back? And I had been convinced I was pregnant? And then I never mentioned it again?
Well, yeah. So obviously I wasn’t pregnant then. And I’m not pregnant now. Which is kind of strange, because with Mini, here’s what the process was — Mr. Right-Click said, “Hey, let’s have a baby,” and I said, “Hey, OK,” and then we were pregnant. And that was that.
Basically he walked past me a few times, and we were shopping for Bugaboo strollers.
This time, not so much.
And part of me is a little frustrated by that, I suppose. But also, part of me is like, eh. Fuck it. Because I think I’ve mentioned before that I fucking hate pregnancy.
Like OH MY GOD I FUCKING HATE PREGNANCY. It requires me to go off my medication or at least reduce it drastically, which really reduces my quality of life. It makes me sick. It gives me reverse claustrophobia. It makes me feel like a host organism. It makes me feel like I want to die. It makes me eat things like Spaghetti-Os and Chicken McNuggets.
And also, I already have Mini. And though I’ve been bitching about Mini’s new incarnation into a three-year-old lately, the truth is that we got really lucky with him. He’s a good kid. He’s healthy, he’s smart, he’s very good natured, and from the looks of it he’s going to be a heartbreaker with the ladies when he’s a teenager. What are the odds that I’m going to get that lucky again with another kid? Even if I make it through the horrors of pregnancy and the first three months of constant screaming and AYIIIYIYIYI whydidIdoothisagain? newborn colicky period . . . would another kid lead me to the same kind of ushy gushy lovey doveyness that is Mini. What if? What if?
What if . . . it were a girl?
So you see, if it’s perimenopause, then things get a little easier. Then me not getting pregnant starts to make a little more sense. And decisions are taken out of my hands.
But, you know, I’m probably just a little extra grumpy.