Today, I feel like absolute garbage. A bloated, hormonal dumpster fire, looking partially human but mostly like a gargoyle with a bad diet and even worse sleep habits.
I’ve spent the morning sitting here gripped by a cocktail of terrible cramps and a completely unearned wave of suffocating anxiety. There is no major crisis. No one is hurt. I’m just a Basic Becky fighting a losing battle against my own biology, trying to muster up the willpower to get on with the day.
I lucked out with a late start at work today. In theory, a late start is a blessing. In reality, it just stretches out the torture. Instead of ripping the band-aid off, I get to sit here and let the pre-work dread slowly marinate. It’s that heavy feeling in your chest where you look at the clock and think, “Great, only two hours until I have to pretend to be a functioning member of society.”
Right now, my survival strategy consists of sitting on the porch with a coffee and a cigarette, mindlessly scrolling, playing a few puzzle games, and aggressively avoiding my reality. To cope with the nervous energy, I have actively half-completed three different household tasks. The dishwasher is half-unloaded. A basket of laundry is dumped on the bed, entirely unfolded. The kitchen counter is half-wiped. I am surrounded by domestic half-assery because my brain simply cannot commit to finishing anything before the real doom sets in.
Turning 40-something means your body and your brain occasionally team up to sabotage you before noon. You’re expected to be productive and professional while your uterus is staging a violent protest and your nervous system is convinced the end of days is fast approaching.
Soon, I will have to make the dreaded walk down the hall to the bathroom to start getting ready for work. That walk feels like a literal march to the gallows. I’ll have to wash off the porch smoke, put on a bra, and transform into a person who can tolerate human interaction without catching a felony.
But you better bottle it up, Becky. We aren’t allowed to talk about this once we’re securely locked in our professional cages for the day. If you work in a male-dominated industry like I do, forget it. One peep out of you about your discomfort and you’re promptly written off as just some hysterical woman. We’re supposed to do yoga, drink a green smoothie, and “crush our goals.” Well, today I’m not crushing anything. I’m just trying to make it to the shower.
If you kicked off your day staring at your phone on a porch, on a couch, at the kitchen table, etc., paralyzed by the general dread of another Monday morning and buried under an avalanche of unfinished chores: welcome. I see you, I hear you, and I can promise you that you are definitely not alone. Though seemingly small in the moment, there’s a certain comfort in knowing that I can’t be the only one. Hopefully this gives you that same small comfort as you saddle up to take on the day.
I Can't Be The Only One 
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