I noticed the extra little ledge of fat on my butt is gone. It was hanging there in back like some bad remodeling add to my ass; didn’t quite match the rest of my butt and stuck out in the air. It be gone, now. Don’t know when it went splitsville, but return to sender ’cause it ain’t on MY ass any more, baby!
My upper arms are another matter. I think the extra flesh there would cover a good sized window. An exaggeration, no doubt. My arms aren’t that big. But I FEEL like they are; I FEEL like they’re giant bat wings ready to spread and fly my ass off to Witch Mountain or something. And my thighs, oh! my thighs. Cellulite ridden complete with extra love handles on the outer edges to bulge my pants all that more when I walk. Blah! I’m waaaaay beyond the fucking mini skirt stage.
Today I woke up with a headache already begun. It’s a touch and go thing caused by my neck problems. I can tell; move my neck to a certain balance point and the pain eases. Unfortunately that balance point is hard for me to maintain and it looks weird to boot. So I’m gonna get flashes of intense pain in my head today. Fucking GREAT!
My shelves are sitting in the hallway with one side painted bright yellow. Yellow is a new thing for me. Last year when I fell into the horrible 12 week pit of depression caused by going cold turkey off my anti-depressant I scrambled to do anything and everything to help myself. Part of my ‘cure’ was simple color therapy. I’d fallen into the habit of gathering muted earth tones around me, and my wardrobe was mostly black. My room is micro-tiny: I can’t open the door all the way because my bed is in the way. So I decided to pump my life full of bright color to try and lift my mood. I’ve got bright yellow trim, a bright lime green window shade, rose-red sheets, and a bright blue duvet cover. I want to add orange and purple. No patterns, just huge blocks of color. I also ditched a lot of clothes and bought the brightest colors I could find as replacements. Yeah, it’s all just t-shirts and hoodies right now. So what? I’m a fucking punk even tho I am tottering around in this aging fucking body. I’ll wear a goddamn hoodie in my fucking casket!
Yesterday I started my post off with a silly 4 line ditty in my head. It came complete with music and a dance, btw. Really haunted me. And I kept thinking, would I really? Would I really go thru a sex change? The answer is no, of course. If I felt that way about it, I’d be looking at it now. I HAVE envied men in the past. Mostly their ability to write their names in the snow. Other than that, I can’t see a lot of difference between what a man is and what a woman is. My credo: I am an artist first, a person second, a woman third. Been that way for at least 2 decades now and it’s the only thing that really makes sense to me. For a brief time I put being a woman ahead of all the rest. It made me terribly unhappy. I screwed a lot of men. I overate. I drank too much. I tried a lot of drugs. I never did anything with my life because to me being a woman = having babies and I sure as hell didn’t want a fucking baby so what did that make me, a slut? A whore? An easy lay ’cause she’d never pop one out? Well, I tried on all those labels. I was condemned by my family for doing it – altho my biological brother had the same promiscuity and he was not vilified in the same manner. Oh, yeah, I was living it. I was doing the whole sexually free not going to be tied down with kids thing. It was a lie. An empty lie designed to keep me from doing what I wanted to do. I tried to fit into this model of what a woman was: I wore makeup, I did my hair. I wore perfume and dresses. I flirted. I dated. I even hinted I wanted to be married to a couple of guys. I am SO glad none of them took me up on it! Good goddess I’d make a terrible wife. And an even worse mother!
None of the above should imply I don’t enjoy getting dolled up every now and then. I DO. I also like to act like a ‘guy’: I cuss and fart and smoke too much. I like raunchy jokes and toilet humor cracks me up to no end. I like getting behind the wheel of a fast car and revving the engine. And I adore John Wayne films.
I’m comfortable in my skin now. I’m past menopause so no more monthly cramps and all the hell that comes with that. I laugh more when a guy comes on to me: I find it amusing now. I’m amazed at watching other women body check me and seeing their judgements written all over their faces (no, ladies, you’re not good at hiding it). I’m at that wonderful age – even if I don’t look it – when I can say whatever the fuck I’m thinking because I’m an old fucking woman. How freeing! If I think a guy’s acting like a cock, I’ll tell him. I don’t care if he doesn’t want to kiss me later! If I hear a woman being a bitch I call her out and I don’t GIVE a shit what she ends up thinking of me. I’m fully aware I’m in the final decades of this carbon based form, so watch the fuck out ’cause I’m done shoveling the shit with the rest of you.
Ah, how brave of me this morning. My mood matches the weather: as I’ve been writing a thunderstorm has moved in with magnificent lightening strikes.
I keep thinking about a kid I met when I was in my early 20s. I was doing a stint for a landlord and putting in some flowers at a building on the east side. Saw 3 kids walking down the sidewalk: 2 were picking on one. I listened, I watched, I said nothing. The second day it happened I got up and confronted the bullies. I laid into them with the wrath of holy hell, putting all the rage I felt as a helpless kid into my tirade. They ran. And I was left with a puddle of thankfulness that didn’t want to leave my side, that invited me in to dinner to meet his mom. If I can do that one more time for one more person….well, my view this morning is that I’ll have lived a full life, indeed.