No Spring Chicken

This is my response to Prompt #42, For the Birds.

I am definitely no spring chicken anymore. That's not exactly a news flash, but it has become more apparent to me over the past few months, ever since my not-so-happy 49th birthday.

May I talk turkey for a moment? I am not enjoying this shit at all. My PMS has returned with a vengeance, turning me into a 12-year-old girl the week before my period--touchy, overly emotional, a tad dramatic. At least I can sympathize with the middle school girls I interact with when I'm out modeling lessons. I look over at some extremely grumpy 12-year-old girl who's watching me like a hawk and send a telepathic signal: I feel ya, chicky-poo, I feel ya.

But, unlike my 12-year-old self, I also have brain fog, turning me into a bird brain, barely able to keep my ducks in a row. Shit, I can't even keep my damn ducks in the same pond. How many ducks do I even have? I don't even know anymore.

And, then, there's the dry skin (new) and the shedding (not new, but exaggerated). Oh, the shedding. I could make a wig out of the nests of hair on my bathroom floor every morning. Maybe I should because at this rate, I may be as bald as a coot by next week.

The transition is really for the birds. I know I'm supposed to welcome it, look at it like a wise owl with the grace becoming of a woman my age. I'm sure it will grow on me, but right now, it's an albatross around my neck, leaving me feeling stuck and at times frozen in place, unmotivated to spread my wings and try something new, preferring the comfort of my own nest.

And, if this is just pre-menopause, what the hell is menopause going to be like? I fear I'll be a crazy loon, feathers all ruffled as the sweat from the inevitable hot flashes make me as mad as a wet hen.

I know this too shall pass--hopefully quickly--and I'll be back in fine feather. Until then, please forgive me as I wing it through this crazy transition.