Happy Birthday to Me

With the Hil situation more or less under control, I attempt to resume a normal life.

As normal as it can be in a peri-menopausal world.

I have to admit I am no longer 25.  It is a sad, sad admission. Not that I was fooling anyone.

And as my birthday approaches, there are a million things to remind me that I am not 25.

Irregular periods, even on The Pill. (Though being on The Pill somehow makes me feel young and wild and free. No need to prevent a pregnancy put the sense of responsibility in life with Lars. A vasectomy made life with J. seem surgically altered. The possibility of a pregnancy out of wedlock and the need to prevent it makes it seem forbidden in some way with Scott. And much more enticing, to be honest. Go figure.)

And constipation. Nothing takes the spring from your step like a little plumbing SNAFU.  Talk about 10 pounds of you-know-what in a 5 pound bag.

And hormonally imbalanced bouts of irrationality are a blast too. I know the signs and mark the days on my calendar. "ND" means "no decisions."  I am not talking about little decisions like whether to cover my grey with Medium Brown or Dark Golden Brown (which according to the box will make my hair the same color no matter the starting point) or whether to pan sear or poach the salmon.  I am talking about real decisions. Like whether to inform my boss what a complete nincompoop my colleague (his subordinate) really is, or whether to tell her directly that it is astonishing to me that she is not ashamed to collect a paycheck for the minimal competent work she produces. Or whether or not to be really bothered by something I think Scott does that he may not do at all, but I strongly suspect that he does, and if I'm right, I need to rethink the whole thing. Those kinds of game changing decisions. The ones you have to go at great guns. No turning back decisions. I table them for times when cooler heads prevail. Literally cooler. As in not plagued by hot flashes, another nifty side effect.

Oh, and the new pain in my hands. The soreness from such things as turning the steering wheel or trying to open the pickle jar.  I am trying to convince myself that it is not the onset of arthritis (Arthur-itis) but instead carpal tunnel syndrome brought on by frequent and repetitive, very animated gesturing at other drivers.

In any event, my birthday has arrived, and with it, another show down with Estelle.

We blew each other off for Mothers Day. Well, sort of.

I had the kids make a card and sign it and sent it with only a picture (that I'd clearly paid to have made) and no message from me. Spent no more than the cost of the picture and the stamp.

She had not acknowledged me at all. Though when I'd returned from dinner with the kids that night, there was a missed call from an "unknown number."  If she were smart enough, and by that I mean, more technically savvy than I know she is, she could have called anonymously, and not wanting to leave any trace of the gesture, hung up, and left not a fingerprint. Dialed *67 and concealed her dialing identity and then quietly hung up when I'd not answered.

I guess I'll never know. But my birthday would be the real test.