Pass the Serotonin

A lot of people have a legitimate fear of getting older. We want to hold onto our youth, smooth skin and non-saggy asses for as long as possible. And while I understand the rationale, I've learned to embrace the art of getting older. To me, getting older has provided me with a keen understanding of who I actually am as a human. I strongly embrace the impending smile lines, grey hairs, crow's feet, and upper arm flab. Who cares if my pasty Irish skin shrivels up and I look like a glow in the dark raisin by the age of 52? That's what plastic surgery is for. Yet, a lot of people I know would love to turn back time, head back to high school and do it all over again. As for me - I'd sooner swim through a swamp filled with fire breathing dragon babies than head back to 2001.

The only thing I really don't like about getting older is that I've somehow been kicked back into puberty. The only difference now is that I have bills I can't afford, a sex life that is less than enviable, and three jobs that have completely killed my social life. I don't know about you, but this seems like a really unfair trade off. At least the first time I went through puberty all I had to worry about was staring at the crush I had on in homeroom without getting caught and figuring out how to apply makeup.

I blame my uterus: she is the bain of my existence. I know of no man who has to suffer like me and the rest of 20-something woman. It's come to a point where I'm fairly certain that my brain lacks some kind of neuron processor. Why else would I be spontaneously crying while watching Jeopardy? 

I know that my monthly hormone cycle is to blame for the majority of my life issues, and I have come to accept the fact that every single day until menopause is decided for me by the fluctuations of estrogen, testosterone and progesterone. Do I feel bad for men for having to put up with women? Yes - most days. Are we all nuts? Yes, we are - but I will reassure you all that we have virtually no control over being crazy - our hormones made us do it.

I'm in the dreadful baby-bearing years of my life and I am going through the fight of my life ignoring the glow inside of my womb whenever I hold a baby or see a pink tutu specifically designed for a 6 month old. I have my hands full at this stage of my life. What I don't need right now is a second round of acne that has slowly taken over my face within the past two years. I'm pretty sure I took the strongest acne pill known to man to take care of this problem a decade ago. I remember those 6 months vividly, including the giant warning on the box that, if I got pregnant while taking, would cause my baby to come out with 4 eyes and no limbs. I went through months of nose bleeds and chapped lips in the journey of acne curing hell. Someone please explain to me why the Bertha of all pimples has rented a summer timeshare on my chin.

I also really don't appreciate the inconsistent mood swings. Within a matter of 20 minutes, I can go from being happy to completely homicidal and then back to happy as if nothing has happened. Who wants to be friends with someone like that? No wonder its hard for women to keep other women friends - we're all plotting to kill each other and then share a bowl ice cream over pedicures 2 seconds later. While watching No Strings Attached last night, the most light hearted and lame "romantic-comedies" of 2010, I found myself bursting into tears while eating pickles. I then laid in bed for hours, unable to sleep, cell phone in hand, plotting to text disgusting mushy words I knew was too soon to utter. Hormonal texting is way more dangerous than drunk texting. God, someone please put me out of my misery.