For the 34,591 time people: stay friends with your exes.

Unless the relationship was too brief to really know each other, or ended in infidelity/abuse/death*, an ex is the perfect friend in times of crisis.  Someone whose already seen you most vulnerable (“What do you mean you don’t love me?  You know that blanket over your head doesn’t make you invisible, right?”), but doesn’t have his shit all wrapped up in your shit like your current significant other.

So when I saw TG online, I had to reach out for a little support.

Me: Home now.  Gma in hospital.  Broke her hip.  Going to Gainesville tomorrow.  Tell me a dirty joke, quick.  Need a laugh.

TG:  I have no dirty jokes. You’ve seen me naked. Isn’t that funny enough, frankly?

Me:  YOU ARE AWESOME.

TG:  Well. Yes.

* (Although come to think of it, one of my relationships DID end in infidelity and while it took longer to get over, we’re still very good friends.)

Made you look!

In the same air of seriousness I have always had writing here, April 1^st seems the perfect day to out myself publicly to friends and family.

I want to blog my month-long hike on the Appalachian Trail and share with everyone.  After much hemming and hawing, I decided I did not want to write anywhere but here.   So here we are.  Two weeks from my start date.  And my blog has been shouted from the rooftops for all to know and read as they wish.

To friends and family:

Welcome!  I started blogging in November of 2003, when my ex-husband (known here as W) and I started divorce proceedings.  I made (very, very, very, very) small waves in the blogging community as a romance/dating blogger.  Now that Tom and I have been together for almost 5 years, I have a much smaller readership and don’t have a particular voice or genre.  It makes for dull writing, and therefore dull reading, at times.  Hopefully the focus of the hike won’t be dull.  Although not too exciting either.  Just one bear mauling a day should do it.

To read what I’ve written so far about hiking, check out the “Take a Hike” category.

I have left up most of my earlier writing.  You are welcome to peruse or ignore as you wish.  Significant others (including W) mentioned at length know what is written.  Hell, Tennessee Guy bought me my first year of this domain.

I use pseudonyms or initials for almost everyone except Tom.  I may have gotten lazy and assigned multiple people the same initials.  My bad.  The point was to tell a story.  If you find something written about yourself that you don’t like, tell me.  It can go away.  Stories aren’t as important as you.

That said, please also don’t take anything written here that seriously.  I take liberties to tell a (sometimes, hopefully) good story.  Just call me Hyperbole in Progress.  I think you will find the person who comes off worst in my writing is me.

Lastly, one housekeeping detail…you are welcome and encouraged to comment on any post you wish.  But I suck at replying to comments.  And because of spamming, the first time you comment I must manually approve you as a commenter.  Annoying yes, but less annoying than 4,289 lexapro ads.  Since my access will be limited while hiking, if you’d like to encourage/heckle me along the way you should comment now so I can approve you before I leave.

To long term readers:

You might notice that along with some of the more critical/personal posts of exes I also removed some of the boring ones.  Artistic license!  Fingers crossed I become wittier now that I know my in-laws are reading.

To my In-Laws (all 37,456 of you):

I’m sorry.  Truly, deeply, sorry you got stuck with a damn Yankee like me who spews her thoughts on the internet for all to see, often at the expense of her husband.  But I love ya’ll dearly and it warms my heart the way you have accepted me so maybe I can make up for it.

And no.  I am not pregnant.  (Yeah, I guess I’m not making up for it anytime soon.)

I bet my Thursday night hot yoga classmates wish my weekly leg shaving did not occur on Fridays.

When something is NAMED for another thing, isn’t it a requirement that the other thing be somehow related to the first thing?  Like if you name some mountains after porcupines, there is a legal obligation that porcupines reside on said mountains?

I cannot believe I have seen a bear in the wild and not yet a porcupine.

ANYWAY.

When we were not busy burying my father or drinking beer, we took three days to hike/camp in the porcupine mountains.  It’s right on Lake Superior in the UP of MI, about 2 hours from the WI cabin.  WTF?

Sorry, got carried away with the initializing.

First, I am going to own up in a very vague way because it turns out there are even topics I believe are too personal/gross/boring to blog about.

Womens, in case you didn’t know, have a very special time of the month.  And that time, while special, is also difficult.  It can be difficult to not feel like a hero for making it to the couch before laying down.  Especially difficult to not shove chocolate or potato chips or chocolate covered potato chips in their mouths non stop.

Jessica In Progress, dispensing with stereotypes since 2011.

My special time coincided nicely with the hike.  The hike where we were without privies or running water or chocolate covered potato chips.

In our planning for hiking the AT I did some research on how I wished to handle this special time and I have been actively preparing for this.

However.

Let’s just say it’s a wee bit different actually out on a 3-day hike with your period than sitting at home thinking about a 3-day hike on your period.  And there were some TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES.  Perhaps some pants needed some washing.  And I can’t believe I am thirty fucking six and admitting that I had this type of issue but I am and I did so there we all are.

ANYWAY.

The TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES took place our first day.  And besides slight embarrassment and huge paranoia throughout the rest of the trip, it really wasn’t that bad.  For me, I mean.  Tom had to listen to my paranoia for the next 48 hours which was probably excruciating.  But on the other hand he wasn’t continuously bleeding so maybe we were about even in the end.

I did take away some VERY valuable lessons learned from the experience and that’s the point of these small hikes.

Other Lessons Learned:

1) Couscous is the most amazing hiking dinner ever.  Easy to cook and so tasty and filling!  I try pretty hard to not get ideas for food that wouldn’t be easy to find in a regular supermarket/convenience store.  No point in dehydrating gourmet organic meals for us if we can’t have them on the thru-hike.  But couscous is mainstream now, right?  Right??  Otherwise, we are going to need to line up some couscous suppliers.

2) I have finally, finally, finally figured out how/where to carry everything in/on/strapped to my pack.  It sounds like a no-brainer.  But I specifically picked a pack that is on the smaller side so I didn’t over pack.  That’s meant I have very little wiggle room, literally.

The biggest concession I made was in the beginning I was adamant I did not want to strap large items to the outside of my pack.  But when I chose my sleeping pad, I did not realize how difficult it was to compress it to store in a stuff sac.  After 3 trips of cursing and glaring at Tom because he had the audacity to breath in my general direction while trying to stuff my pad first thing in the morning, I decided to try just rolling it tight and strapping it to the side of my pack.  It was awesome.

3)  Tom.  Is.  Slow.  Fingers crossed it was just because we hadn’t been hiking lately and he’s not conditioned to the trail.  Otherwise we are going to need way more than 6 months to thru-hike.

4) Letting Tom set the pace so much made me realize how much I probably push him.  And I’d much rather hold myself back and still have energy to do the camp chores.

5)  I am even more convinced that I do not want to live in FL for much longer.  I appreciate the hiking opportunities we’ve had, but I’m sick of sand and scrub.  Trees!  Glorious Trees!

6) Stick close to privies during my special time.  Or suffer TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES.

If I attempted the purchase of condoms at noon on a Friday in Walmart, there was a 95% chance I’d have an aneurysm waiting for lady with kankle’s to realize she was blocking the entire aisle as she stared at a mushed doughnut display and fantasized about smearing them on her skinny biker boyfriend. 

(Why?  Why is it always skinny biker = fat chick.  And usually large biker = hot chick.  Although not as often as large bikers wish.) 

That’s ironic because Tom would probably not be worried about getting me pregnant while having sex with my corpse. 

When Tom asks why the saran wrap is on his nightstand, I’m going to direct him this way.

TG:  How’s things at the sanctuary?

Me:  My co-worker just brought me a baggie of intern hair.  Does that sum it up?

What level of hell do you get sent to if you plan to seduce your husband with a mix tape given to you by an ex?

I was typing an email to someone yesterday with directions to our apartment when ST leaned my way from his side of the office and said, “That’s the most typing I’ve heard you do in weeks!”

Between that and the oh-so-subtle, “You have a blog, you know,” I’ve inferred he feels I should update.

But…update on what?  I’m positive there are funny things happening every day to me.  I’m sure of it because lately I’ve been so stressed and depressed that I would not have the stamina to type if other things weren’t balancing it out.  But…they allude me when I sit down.  Especially when I sit down by myself and the weight of the condo and classes and no job settles into my head.

I was typing directions because I’m hosting dinner for the sanctuary’s interns on Thursday.  We currently have four, and they are a great bunch.  But whenever I have people over, even friends who have known me for ten+ years, I fear they will be bored.  Because, deep in my heart, I’m aware I am boring.  And I LIKE it.  I will chose a book over boozefest.  Or incorporate them like the time my sophomore year that Julianne and I got drunk and recited our favorite poetry to the rest of the dorm.

…Just giving you a moment to let that sink in.

Anyway, in a fit of organization and forward movement that is the Jessica I know (unlike the Jessica typing this right now who would like to skip class to play video games in her leopard-spotted PJs…evidently I take this going-back-to-school very seriously.  You should probably lock up the vodka and Norton’s Anthology.) I called the school health department and got an exam for my girly parts Thursday afternoon because I am out of BC-pills and lord knows ob/gyn is still the one faction of medicine that insists on poking you because handing over a pill.  (Hee.  Poke.)

So, a brief two hours before my apartment is invading by younguns looking for a good night off I will be ankle deep in stirrups and lubricating jelly.

Perhaps I should just set up the shot glasses and copies of Frost beforehand.

As a side note, after writing this, I realized another issue with discussing/treating PMS is the fact that it’s something that only occurs for a few days a month. I started feeling better and wondered what the hell I was making a big deal about. (I think the fact that my stomach feels better (get your miracle lemon bars here!) – which was completely unrelated – is putting a positive spin on everything.)

Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe women must simply tolerate a certain amount of discomfort. I refuse to believe that for now, but I concede it’s possible.

Anyway….

It’s entirely possible yesterday’s post was PMS-induced.

I have several drafts trying to explain my personal hell with this subject. It’s a difficult topic, once you get past making stereotypical cutesy references of being irrational and craving sweet, salty carbohydrates.

Bleeding gums aren’t cutesy. Neither are having your eyeballs swell and change shape so that you can’t wear contacts, insomnia, headaches, or breast pain. Oh my fuck the breast pain.

And you know what’s sick? In some ways I feel lucky to have all these physical PMS symptoms. I think people are more sympathetic and understanding to the overall condition whereas if my only symptoms were crying over the fact that I believe Frisco hates me and eating a batch lemon squares, no one would be soothing my back and saying, “Aw babe.” Instead I fear it would be bemused irritation and wondering why I don’t just suck it up.

Why is it that all of these symptoms are valid, all of them are a direct response to a change in my hormones, yet I feel the ones stereotyped do not deserve the same medical concern and treatment as the others? This is perhaps the biggest issue I have felt at a disadvantage over by being a woman in my life. I think we need more awareness and that’s one of the reasons I’m writing about it.

I’d never had huge PMS issues until a few years ago. I started the pill when I was sixteen and was off-and-on for most of my adult life. One month I didn’t get to the pharmacy in time and my ex-husband and I both noted a change for the better in my temperament. Since we weren’t having sex that frequently and planned a vasectomy, we decided I’d stay off.

I tried to go back on when the new boy and I started dating. It was a disaster. After two scripts in two and half months, I quit.

As I tend to think of myself as a moody individual anyway, I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve had the emotional issues with PMS. I didn’t take notice until last May when the physical symptoms got worse.

The breast pain is what couched me back in October. And finally sent me to the doctor. There are other physical aspects regarding my cycle (duration, consistency) that were also to the point I wanted an opinion on what was going on.

PMS often gets worse as women get older. Isn’t that wonderful?

The emotional side of it had also gotten worse. But I hadn’t really told anyone. Instead of just being sad or moody, I was having panic attacks. I would get frustrated and scared and I could tell it was irrational when (if) I vented to someone else and saw their reaction, but until then I was completely oblivious.

I had put off seeing anyone because I knew what the first treatment would be. Going back on the pill. I had to get desperate enough to consider this option and go through the hell it had been last time.

Luckily, the doctor listened to me. For once, I had actually written down each and every symptom and also the issues I had with each of the BC scripts from the previous summer.

She considered putting me on Seasonale, or prescribing that I skip placebos. Not having the change in hormones is really the only way to completely mitigate the effects. But since I’d been off for so long and had issues previously, we started with just putting me on Yasmin.

She also prescribed an SSRI. I knew that was coming too and had promised myself I would try whatever she felt was best. In the week that I took it, I failed to climax four times. While my partner and I have great chemistry and this failure would be strange enough with him, twice it was with myself and I damn well know what to do and do not have performance anxiety over it.

I stopped taking it. My doctor knows this. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like, if instead of just being a moody individual something is really unbalanced and my quality of life would improve with drugs. But I’ve never felt that my life has been compromised enough by my emotional state for this to be an option.

Also, the Yasmin seems to help. Which is what I thought in the beginning. If it was going to help regulate all the other symptoms, why not this one? Is it because even doctors treat emotional symptoms separate from the physical? Is it that our medical institutions need to shift their views on PMS and other women issues?

The Yasmin only helps. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe emotional symptoms do necessitate separate care.

But the Yasmin also only helps with all the other stuff too.

The breast pain, my biggest issue, is almost completely gone. Twinges here and there. I also take primrose oil the week of my placebo pills.

The physical aspects of my cycle are also more consistent. Although I still cannot predict to the day when I could to the hour when I was younger.

My gums are less severe. The emotions more range between weepy and frustration, which I recognize versus getting really out of control. No panic attacks.

But I’ve pretty much given up wearing contacts for about a week a month. And the headaches seem worse. As do the sleep habits and the night sweats. Although it’s possible they were this bad previously and the breast pain just masked it.

So while I’m debating going back to my doctor, I have a favor to ask the ladies. Do you have anything you swear by? Is there an over-the-counter medication that helps with your headaches/pains? Is there a tea you use to help sleep?

I hope this has been somewhat educational for men. Not that my situation is what all women go through, but perhaps it allows for at least some awareness and compassion. There are only two men in my real life that I’ve shared this with and they have been incredibly supportive considering this is all foreign to them.

People at work who think I should be embarrassed today:

You obviously did not know me between the ages of 13-21, when it was pretty much a daily given that I would do something so humiliating I cannot think of more than 2 of these incidents in a row without needing to crawl under the desk and phone out for margaritas.

Incident 1 – After a boyfriend whose affection seemed to be…dwindling…did not call to say he made it home OK like he promised, I started calling him AND my pseudo-friend repeatedly. Around 3am her mother picked up. Did I hang up? No. I asked if Y was there, basically informing her I thought her daughter was a slut-bitch. (He wasn’t. Although later…what can I say? Intuition sucks sometimes.)

Incident 2 – I threw a cat at someone in an argument. (We were on the same sofa at the time with roughly one foot between us, please don’t call the SPCA. It was more the fact that the cat was clawed and the catcher was shirtless.)

Point is, these were actions in my control. Choices I made. My fingers dialed. My arm flung. And for that, I hang my head and drink sangria until it’s all blurry and I can no longer remember why the name “Susie” makes me spit.

I mean, yes, we could argue that I let my ass get so large as to cause the split in the back of my skirt allowing all of you to see my hot pink panties. I suppose some might deem this something in my control.

But I view the ability to dress oneself appropriately as a genetic trait. I am helpless in the face of my DNA to check clothing for matching or stains, let alone gapping holes in an area where I hardly ever glance. It’s not like it’s my knee.

Come to think of it, if you work with me and were present for the great vasectomy fiasco of ‘03, then you should be fully aware that pink panties will cause me no shame.

I’m holding my head high. Although my sweater? Very, very low.

(Pink Panties of Shame? So the name of my new band. Or book. Whichever.)