The Fort Collins Pube Fair.

~ Lkvy ~ 1 Comment

111 pages deep into 1Q84, and Murakami describes a woman’s pubic hair for the second time.

“Pubic hair like a poorly tended soccer field.”

Then, another 71 pages later, Murakami can’t hold in the urge to shoehorn in another uncomfortable simile about pubes.

“Her pubic hair grew like a patch of grass that had been trampled by a passing army.”

I’m currently on page 275, anxiously awaiting to see how much more abstract Murakami can get in his descriptions of women’s pubic hair. Between those 93 pube-free pages, there have been swells of chests and tight sweaters. Nothing as bad as Simmons’ “Her nipples, he could not help noticing…” line.

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Imagination.

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Six weeks into my sabbatical, the Question of the Day remains unchanged.

What do I want to do today?

First, I’ll have some toast. While seemingly everybody I know needs an hour or two before eating anything, I wake up excited to eat toast. I have access to oatmeal (instant and delayed), apples, yogurt, eggs, and a whole bunch of other unconventional breakfast foods, yet every morning, I feel in my heart — and stomach — that I want toast. Options concerning breakfast do not overwhelm me.

Toast moves me.

As soon as those two pieces of toast are inside of me, the day unleashes its torrent of options.

In real life, I’m the least likely to choose this one.
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How to Win Friends (food and video games) and Influence People (drugs and alcohol).

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The tournament is over. Which Cup determined the winner? Mushroom Cup? Shell Cup? Flower Cup?

In the race to get all the party decorations and snacks ready, I won. I was left with enough time to add extras to my already-extra party arrangements, such as crafting a dry-erase arrow spinner for course selection between facing off players.

A few minutes before the first guests showed up, I slipped a non-carcinogenic sheet of stickers next to the disposable cups, giving guests an opportunity to express themselves.

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Too metal for granny squares.

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I was out the door by 6:30 yesterday morning to get an in-depth analysis of how I’m fucked up. I already knew my internal clock was jammed. I didn’t need the confirmation when I showed up at the specimen collection laboratory five minutes before opening — or so I thought — when I realized it was Sunday. They weren’t open for another 1445 minutes.

I suspect my body might’ve gotten hasty about its descent into middle age and might be experiencing a soft launch into menopause: perimenopause. One of the symptoms of perimenopause is mood swings. I’d been dealing with those monthly for the past 30 years. In fact, aren’t mood swings the mortal coil of womanhood?

Additionally, which specific moods fall under this symptom? Since I’m currently taking a break from work, I generally feel upbeat, with my moments of anger mostly directed at dangerous drivers. It’s the other symptoms that have me wondering if I’ve started perimenopause earlier than expected.

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