The Spinster's Soliloquy

Man, I Feel Like a Woman Today.

I’m in the Xennial generation—the microgeneration that saw streetlights signal dinnertime just as The Oregon Trail came into our computer vans. We have the strength and blase of our Gen X sisters and the emotional intelligence of the elder Millennials.

We don’t complain.

We know your weak spots.

And we miss smoking cigarettes.

We’re all in perimenopause as I type this. Sweaty and sad. Gorgeous and Botoxed. Pissed off and grateful. Full of estradiol and Ozempic.

As soon as I cracked an eye open this morning, I knew it was going to be one of those days. Full-body aches. Depression. Anger. Tired. So, so tired. The kind of tired that makes your facial muscles wobble from trying to hold your eyebrows up just to stay awake. Bloodshot eyes—not from alcohol or drugs, but from yawning. Tears streaming down my face—from yawning. I knew I was going to have hateful thoughts about everyone I encountered and have the damndest time keeping them to myself.

So I went to church.

I needed to be next to Christ before I went off on all His children.

Church has a way of making my problems small. I knelt and handed Him each one of my worries and fears. My sins. My wants. I imagined placing them at His feet beneath the cross. I imagined angels hauling them away while we finished our conversation.

I cried.

No tissues.

I usually keep my eye sweat and snot to myself, so I was unprepared. At first, I wiped everything away, Erika Kirk–style, but things got unpretty real fast. I was horrified. I was crying in public, for crying out loud.

Pun intended.

Because I’m a tough girl.

I’m Kat from 10 Things I Hate About You. I’m Angelina in Girl, Interrupted.

Or at least I was.

Now I’m Carolyn from American Beauty. I’m Angelina in Maleficent.

So I cried to Our Father and prayed a Rosary to Mother Mary.

I left feeling calmer.

Then I went home, ate a burrito, and slept for three hours.

In the middle of the day.

On a Tuesday.

Like some broke-ass lady of leisure.

When I woke up, my brain refused to report for duty. Absolute labor strike. It took immense effort just to decide what to do next. I felt like I was trying to run underwater.

Very, very slowly, I put lotion on my feet, pulled on socks and shoes, and turned on my walking pad.

I walked for fifteen minutes at a snail’s pace.

It was the biggest achievement of a very sad day.

I can’t say I’m proud of myself. Remember, I’m strong and blasé. Walking on a treadmill for fifteen minutes after napping half the afternoon isn’t exactly something to write home about.

But I do feel…

…something.

I don’t often relate to other women my age because I don’t have children or a husband.

Today, though, I did.

Fighting hormone takeovers.

Fatigue.

Doubt.

Hopelessness.

Fear.

Sadness.

Worthlessness.

It’s one of the few times I feel connected to other women my age.

Ironically, it’s also the time we’re all expected to keep it to ourselves.

We don’t complain.

We know your weak spots.

And…

I miss the hell out of Parliament Ultras.