Babushka the tale of the old lady that let herself go...

 I was walking home the other evening when a group of teenagers called me Babushka. I knew it was a dig of some kind, but until today, I didn't fully understand the insult. It's perfect, little shites. How can kids get it so accurate? Yes, I am Babushka, fuddy, duddy and old. Peasant women, well, so apt. Divorce and study can fast-track a person to peasantry. 

Is it time to take stock of my self-care routine? I mean, the only Way is up, as Yazz annoyingly sang. How did I let it get this bad? As usual, I bargained with the universe for a couple of more days before making changes (these couple of days have amounted to a few years now). 

I was at a healthy living workshop yesterday. An earthy type ran the group. First, we were ordered to sit in a circle despite wanting to hide behind a desk. Second, they said sugar makes you fat. I swear they looked at me saying it. No shit, I didn't come here to be told the reason I'm fat. I worked that bit pout myself.

Babushka or bust?

The storm is coming!

Yikes. The storm is coming. Hurricane no less. Storms remind me of the vulnerability of humans. I remember being caught in a storm in the past, just my son and I.

This opening line is powerful. I stopped typing then. Reading it now, it is prophetic. It has always been just my son and me. Nobody has ever truly entered the picture. I've tried—I really did. I regret my marriage. I regret moving to Lisdoonvarna to share my life with a robot. That's attachment wounding for you! Choosing an unavailable, judgmental nonhuman. 

I must remember all the eyerolling, all the joy steeling, and all the judging. Jesus, how can I forget the judgments? Well the storm came but it wasn't the weather kind. though that is scary, emotional storms and life circumstances that threaten your very sense of safety and security are far more terrifying. 

The storm has passed now, and I'm thrown ashore, gasping for breath and disoriented. I must have been disassociated when completing my thesis as the second I hit send, I came too. I looked around, and it was shocking to realise I was now living in a new apartment. My work is precious to me, and my manager parts use it to regulate. Big shout out to those hard-working managers who know how to keep me safe. Without the comfort of my work role, I sank to the bottom of the ocean. So far from human life and anything familiar. I sank and sank. I gave up. I allowed my body to go deeper. I might have played a bit and protested my distress in asking the then-boyfriend where do I fit? He didn't send a rope. I didn't protest too hard. I sank further.

The thing about getting old and heartbreak

 Is heartbreak the purview of the young and stupid? I think it should be. I'm not cut out for this achy breaky heart shite. I couldn't have none the sensible thing and remained nunafied  (just made it up) after pending divorce? Those Victorians were on to something with the whole remain in black and take self off market thing. I'm all for women's lib, but where has it got is truly?

Is it inevitable that all girls will eventually want to play house? I feel like a mistress in my own life. Except a mistress would be getting fancy bags and presents on demand. It's not a bad deal from where I am sitting. 

Granted my HRT patch needs replacing and I'm sorry but the swapping the estrodot for a generic brand is not cutting it. I'm onto ye big pharma. I shall call every pharmacy in the kingdom until I am supplied with the brand that instantly makes me not want to murder people. I used to be nice, well, I am tired of that too. Nice girls do not make history and have a habit of being trampled on. 

Back to my original question, the heart might have only so many breaks it can take. Imagine hair line cracks zigzagging across said glass like heart. Maybe the heartbreak in older years is the proverbial straw that breaks the camel, so to speak? I digress, on a more positive day, perhaps I'd say "better to have loved than lost" but today is NOT that day. Ask me again after I change my HRT patch.