When I was thirteen, the approaching millennium was an exciting thing, some distant and magical future. We would talk about where we’d be, who we’d be, what we’d be doing. I don’t remember every laying down any specifics, other than the unemotional assumption that I’d be married – to a man – and have children. Continue reading
…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.)
polyps (actually just the one but it was a whopper)
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.