megfowler.com

So it’s coming on two years since I started taking you for my autoimmune disorder, and though I know you do all sorts of good things…

… well, YOU SUCK. LIKE A FREAKIN’ DYSON ON A DATE WITH ANOTHER DYSON IN A WIND TUNNEL.

Most of the time, granted, you do your thing without interfering too much. But when you get in the mood, you turn my body into a science fiction novel.

However.

I can deal with the fact that I never experienced PMS until my early thirties. It’s like gaining an annoying friend who I only have to talk to a week out of each month.

I can deal with hot flashes. They give me nice color, kind of like a scorching, blistering sunburn from being trapped on a desert island.

I can deal with migraines, nausea, hives… you name it. Though not all at once, please. And no locusts. That’s too biblical for my tastes.

What I can’t really deal with is that you’re the thing I have to blame it all on.

Hormones are supposed to be good when you’re a single girl of 33! The very idea of hormones is pure Cosmo fodder!

You’re supposed to feel them raging! Be inspired by them to do naughty things! Slip them on like Manolos! Toss them about like beads at Mardi Gras!

Not take them daily to avoid getting cancer or diabetes or osteoporosis. Killjoy.

It’s like putting on a cocktail dress to sit down and knit for a few hours, perhaps while beating yourself about the head with a porcupine figurine.

I’m tired of you guys not being the FUN kind of hormones.

So could you get on that?

Thanks,

Meg