megfowler.com

Well, hello.

I know you’re not used to me talking to you, and CERTAINLY not used to me listening to you, but yeah… I thought I’d drop you a quick note today.

Part of the new plan, you see. Communicating. Yadda yadda.

I’m not really sure how to launch into what I need to say, though, so perhaps I’ll just wade in like a bull in a china shop, and let you do with that what you will.

I’m quite tired of you. Literally. Fatigued.

I mean, I’m thankful that you work hard at some of the things you’re supposed to do — circulating blood, walking around, picking stuff up, looking at things — but you’ve really dropped the ball otherwise. And I don’t just mean growing crooked teeth or freaky fingernails, though that does indeed irk me to NO end.

No… I’m spending serious cash pumping you full of everything from hormone replacements to antihistamines to weird vitamins to anti-inflammatories to leafy greens to coffee, just to keep you in some sort of reasonable shape.

And you know what?

YOU’RE NOT HOLDING UP YOUR END OF THE BARGAIN!

You’re supposed to feel BETTER when I give you the chemicals you need, not exponentially worse. Adjustment period my ass, body!

It’s time for you to get in gear and let me get some rest and look better and stop with the damn hot flashes. I’m not a 57 year old woman with mom jeans and grandkids on the way. I’m supposed to be in my “prime”, and instead I feel like a joke.

This is not CUTE at 32. I don’t foresee it will be CUTE at 33.

I don’t want to explain to anyone else why I’m overweight or what my autoimmune issues are or why you won’t think I’m cute off the internet or why I am cherry red-faced or why I can’t have kids or what the deal is with the migraines or the nausea or the strange pains in my bones. I don’t want people to think I’m lazy or not trying hard enough or a freak of science.

I just want to be average. Standard.

I don’t need gorgeous or bodacious or even particularly streamlined. I don’t need to lie around on a beach in Brazil in a bikini or cause men to swallow their teeth when I walk by or reference my former modeling career or inspire weird fantasies.

Perfection was never the goal.

You know this.

I’ve explained it to you.

And yeah, you gave me flack for a lot of years about not doing things I should have done and it’s true. You were right. I was sabotaging myself, for whatever reason. The disconnect between what I was and what I wanted to be was a choice I held in my hands.

But for a whole year now, I’ve given you what you’ve asked for most of the time. Even when it was embarrassing or awkward. And you can bet I’ve been honest with people about where I’m at.

I didn’t sell you out.

Yet I’m still a pudgy, sneezy, potentially-snoring, floppy-haired, moon-faced git with perimenosomethingorother and odd toes and a headache and a giant chip on my front tooth.

I don’t need to tell you how popular that makes me.

But I’m prepared to accept most of it as “how things are.”

Except for feeling like crap. That you could switch up, because you know I’m trying.

Don’t you?

Anyway, have some more coffee and get back to me. I think we need to find a better way of working all of this out. I could keep making jokes about it, but it honestly just hurts me at this point. And I know you don’t like it either.

I’m trying to love you, ok? Give me a chance.

Always,

Meg