the changing body fortunes of a woman in her forties…

…specifically, me.  An age is just a number – or, a gateway into a weird, dark, unsettling place full of doctors’ waiting rooms and sympathetic nods and new prescriptions and ominous letters from the NHS.  (And praise be for the NHS.)

weight gain

joints

migraines

breast cysts

ovarian cysts

polyps (actually just the one but it was a whopper)

hormones

periods: heavy, whole body painful, unpredictable…

…or not periods. who knows. still hurts like fuck though. sore boobs 4eva

perma pms.  what with the no period thing.

joints.  which I mentioned but seriously.  Fucken JOINTS

Okay, I know I’m too guilty of self-deprecating creaky age jokes (funny because they’re true though).  I mean I also think it’s weird to celebrate age (FUCK YEAH FORTY FUCKING TWO BITCHES) as if it’s not just some accident of birth or circumstance, there’s not really anything I can do about how old I am.  BUT.  You know, despite all the weird changes it’s going through and the distinct lack of love and respect I give it, my bod can carry me through a couple of back to back crazy tough derby games as if it ain’t no thang, so hey – it’s pretty amazing.

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