The Raging Hormonal Hulk

I think I have figured out the true source of the Hulk’s rage. It wasn’t exposure to gamma rays. It wasn’t being beaten by his father.

It’s hormones.

Who knew the Hulk is really a woman?

And the reason I know this is because I am currently undergoing hormonal fluxes of Hulk-like proportions, thanks to something called perimenopause, which is apparently nature’s practical joke on women, forcing them to undergo puberty for the second time in their lives. And for me, that’s a rerun of the worst years of my life; years that I never, ever, ever wanted to repeat.

I have never forgotten one particularly stupid incident, when I was unable to find my brush, and refused to leave for school without it, and raged up and down, searching for it, until I finally had to give up and head downstairs for the car or be late for school. For whatever reason, I put my hand on my back pocket. And found the brush. And did not, of course, tell my mother I found it.

That rage has suddenly returned, and for equally stupid reasons. Tonight, I found myself internally raging about something that in no way deserves any kind of emotional investment, let alone anger. And even as I write this post, the rage is going away. And not because I’m writing it. I know the difference between getting something off my chest, and inexplicable anger. Well, except this anger is explicable. It’s effing perimenopause. It’s a rerun of my teen years. It’s a really, really, really bad practical joke on women.

And by the way: Not funny.

And that isn’t even the worst part. For that, you boys can turn away and stop reading. Or you can continue to read after the prompt, in which case my response to anyone who thinks he’s just read TMI and is stupid enough to say anything about it is going to be: I told you not to read it, so shut up.

If I’m feeling polite.

Yeah, that’s the hormones talking. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

After about two decades of regular, 28-day cycles lasting three to five days, last month I found myself on a 23-day cycle. The first period in this cycle lasted for ten days. Light. Heavy. Light. Heavy. Heavy. Heavy. And then “WTF? When does this thing end?”

A 23-day cycle. With raging hormones. I am not happy. This means two more menstrual cycles per year, and if the new length sticks, I’m going to have 150 days per year of raging hormones, discomfort, and cramps. Five months out of the year. Wow. That really, really sucks.

I don’t think I want to hear another word about men and prostates. Not. Ever.

Gee. My fifties are going to be so much fun. I can’t wait. Perimenopause could take the entire decade to cycle through.

I sense a vast number of Hulk posts waiting to be written.