*This is a humor piece (at least I’m pretending it is), it has very little (actually nothing) to do with being nerdy. I swear and talk about periods. You’ve been warned.
I made the world end by turning thirty. I hope this means I’m done with periods. The bloody kind, not the sentence structure kind. As everyone else counted down the Mayan calender I counted down to my birthday. And since I’m scheduling this posting for the future, either I was merely thirty for a day and the world ended, or I’m stuck editing this post a month from now and am dealing with both kinds of periods. Again.
I think the universe couldn’t handle my being in it. Honestly. That’s why the world is ending and it decided to make my life miserable the closer I got to being thirty. Take for example the uterus I was given. My uterus is such a mean horrible thing. So much so, I feel like it is a different entity from myself entirely. Which is nice on one hand, because I blame all bad things on her. She costs me a lot of money every month, so I feel justified. Plus, she almost killed me once. So, there is that. I really want to just get rid of her, but everyone else is far more concerned about my “child-bearing years” than I am. Including my father who said, three times, over the holidays that he couldn’t wait to see, “A little Jami running around here.” Frankly, if I could have torn my uterus from my abdomen and set it to toddling about on the floor, I would have. I’m just thinking of you, Dad.
Alas, even my own uterus specialist has a soft spot for my never-going-have-a-baby maker. He thinks I should keep her in spite of her death threats. But then his opinion counts minimally in my book, even though he’s effectively given back days of my life to me now that I no longer have to take off of work lying on the couch praying not to bleed out for 24 hours. Though he is after all, the same man who told me my uterus is small and I have lumpy breast. My general physician told me to maybe not lead with that when I go out to the bars. She laughed when I told her though, which was the whole point. I love making people laugh, but I especially like if I can get them to look at me quizzically first as though they are trying to decipher if I’m really upset or making fun. I got her to look like that three times during my last visit. It was glorious.
The holidays are rough, even without pressure from wanna-be grandparents (who are already have four grandbabies, just so you know). I’ve had a rough go of it financially. I’ve worked at least two jobs for the past four years, because my law degree is not upholding its end of the bargain. Much like my uterus. The holidays seem to heighten the lack of funding when I have to pay for things like groceries, electricity bills, and presents. To top off the overwhelming flood of stress my period started an entire week early because I took my birth control pill a mere nine hours later than I was supposed to. You hate her a little bit now too, don’t you? (Because you should.)
Plus, I had this dream to take a cruise for my thirtieth birthday, but had to forgo that for financial reasons. Then I tried to set up an out-of-state spa weekend, which I also had to forgo, this time for reservation timing reasons. Next I tried set up an in-the-city spa day, but had to forgo that for getting the stomach virus and lying on the couch for three days drinking Gatorade reasons. Now, I’m left planning an impromptu birthday party the day before the world ends, and since its my party we’ll all be making tiaras, or crowns, or Mayan head dressings. Because the world is ending and because I found construction paper with glitter already on at Target. My birthday will include some lovely people (sure), glasses of wine (obviously), and card games (woot!), but it is a far cry from a cruise.
If the world does end the day after, I’ll have only been thirty for some twenty-odd hours and have died young and pretty. So, there is that.
And, I have had lovely things happen to me too. I have wonderful sisters who listen to me cry on the phone in the empty office across from my cubicle because Tina Fey says you should never let anyone at work know you are crying. Which is good advice and works out if you have an empty office you can use or an empty stall in the bathroom as long as you know how to cry quietly. Which, after years of perfecting in law school, I know how to do quite well. It’s hard to handle the news that the law license which is sucking me dry of seventy thousand dollars and which hasn’t helped me land a job to pay for those massive loans, also requires 342 dollars as a Happy New Year’s present for the ARDC (Illinois’ lawyers licensure). It’s also hard to find out via email that same day a job position I interviewed for was given to three other people. Knowing as I sit there reading the Dear John email that in the near future my paycheck, which is small as it is, will be even smaller because of the stomach flu Gatorade drinking episode recently, and I don’t get paid sick days. And my period started seven days early, which doesn’t mean it will be over seven days early, it just means I will be on my period for two weeks. I know I’ve said that like three times, but it has not been the best day.
My best friend pointed out I was lacking in some holiday cheer. She’s good like that. I explained about the whole two weeks of an uncooperative uterus which will get nearly any woman on your side (except for the ones who tell you that you should just drink orange juice to cure your period woes and, even though you are at a friend’s party, you will stand up and yell that a little orange juice isn’t going to keep you from hemorrhaging to death and then your friend quietly asks you if you are on your period now so you just look at her and leave) and so Sara said, “Dude, seriously? Damn.”
I thought it rather ironic she used the word “Dude”, but overlooking that replied, “My uterus is a total bitch.” Then I felt bad. Not for my uterus, because she is a homicidal asshole, but because it’s unfair to dump on my friend just because I’m having a bad day. With some effort I started to list a few things that were making me happy. Then a holiday miracle happened as I realized that it made me happier just to stop thinking about my period, my upcoming birthday party, and the end of the world. I told her about my Donut Boyfriend who gives me a free donut every time I buy coffee. Maybe he’s just trying to get rid of them at the end of the day, but I like to pretend he has a crush on me. Plus he is unerringly happy to see me every time I go to his shop, it’s nice to know your boyfriend wants to see you. Even if he is just your Donut Boyfriend who wants money from you.
My blog also makes me happy and so I started writing this piece and told Sara I was putting our conversation in it and she said, “Fame and sugar, what more could you want?” Honestly not much.
“And just think,” she added, “if the world ends, then this is your last period, ever.”