With any luck, I’ll be going to bed early tonight. If not, I hope I’ll be reading my train book.* Or, at least quietly sobbing into my faux-fur quasi-Russian hat about how no one ever really loved me, ever.
Unless I throw things. Or throw up. The adventures of perimenopause are many and varied.
The point is, you probably won’t hear from me again, and oughtt not to want to until the estrogen levels stabilize down to a low freakin’ roar.
* Joy: I dreamt about trains last night, for the third time in a row.
A the H: Well, you’re reading a book about trains, aren’t you?
Joy: Yes.
A the H: Still. Three nights is a lot of trains. One night, I could understand.
Joy: You aren’t going to go all Freudian on me, are you? Sometimes a lighthouse is just a lighthouse, and . . .
A the H: No. More like Biblical. I think God is calling you to quit work and become a conductor.
Joy: That would be excellent; I hear they get to wear cool hats.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
There, there, dear. There, there. (Stock up on fans because the hot flashes are coming!)
Cynthia
Oh, they happen–but usually while I’m asleep (I’ve been told that those are technically “night sweats”).
But a fan would help a lot–particularly because my office at work a bit stuffy.