If that one damned (literally) woman hadn’t eaten that one little apple, women today would not be plagued with our array of female-only problems, including but not limited to incredibly painful childbirth, PMS and never being able to find our size on the 80%-off rack at JCPenney.
I can’t really blame Eve. She probably had an irrepressible hormonal craving.
What is it about hormones that makes women throw spatulas across the kitchen, kick holes in the bottom of bedroom doors, sigh all day long at work, pry ourselves out of bed and collapse into a nap as soon as we get home from work, hate the sight of every single item of clothing in our closet and our roommate’s, eat Oreo’s, ice cream and sea salt and vinegar potato chips, and cry?
Oh, I hate the tears most of all. In California, I used to sit in the tack room and bawl my eyes out. I couldn’t catch an outside horse to ride; I’d just throw a curry comb at him within five minutes and then he’d snort and run off and I’d cry.
I told my horseshoer neighbor once that some days all I can do is sit in the saddle house and cry.
“Oh, hell, I wish I’d have known that – I’d go over there and cry with you,” she replied.
I tell myself some days I just can’t make major decisions or new friends. I hate every article I’ve ever written and I know in my heart I will never amount to anything. I have to remind myself to look at people when they speak to me and brushing my teeth feels like a major accomplishment and therefore I deserve a cookie.
I can’t muster the energy to ask new acquaintances, “So, where ya from?” or cheerfully introduce myself to the other teachers at a new school when I’m subbing. I’ve survived 24 years without knowing these people, and I’m okay with that.
I now know that “This, too, shall pass.” Within a week I will be bounding out of bed at 5:30 AM, sticking my hand out and saying “Hi, I’m Jolyn,” with a big smile, and walking down the chip aisle without grabbing a family size bag of Fritos. In the meantime, I will refrain from signing a lease, applying for a new job, quitting my current job, telling a man we were meant to be together but fate cruelly intervened, telling my sister I hate her, or getting a haircut.
I will also permit myself one loud, heartfelt utterance of the f-word. I’ve found that if I say any more than that, my anger escalates, but just one can be very therapeutic. Never underestimate the soothing power of a curse word and a bag of Reese’s.