UMS - Ugly Mood Swings. I didn't make that one up. I first heard it on Moonlighting, an 80's sitcom with Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd. I liked that show for the witty repartee between those two. It had a Taming of the Shrew sharpness to it and... I don't want to get off on that tangent.

I'm still experiencing ugly mood swings. I'm not getting many of the highs, but the lows are coming often enough and over the dumbest things. It's the monthly weepies only worse because they're not constrained by the calendar and I actually feel rather stupid at some of the things which are drawing tears. Part of me wants to just crawl in a dark hole and wallow in unjustified pity (over what? hellifino). Part of me wants to lean on the edge of the world and weep for all of humanities problems, or shed tears of joy for all the triumphs.

It really is a bit of a bother to just be crying a lot, in either direction. My frikken heart swells up and spills over onto my cheeks during the 'reveals' on the home improvement shows! I'd be a true puddle if I caught a Hallmark commercial. Hell, just thinking about those tightens my throat. What IS this?

I could write it off to hormonal flux, I guess, despite lack of physical evidence to bear it out. I know this perimenopausal process is far too long and much too harrowing when it flares up. I've been on the slippery slope for several years now and I've had quite enough. To borrow from Archie Bunker, "G'head, Edith. If yer gonna have a change of life, do it now. I'll give ya 30 seconds."

If my spouse had an iota of empathy or compassion in his person, I might curl up with him and have a good long cry. He doesn't, so I don't. For him, "hugging is faggoty" unless it's done horizontally. Crying is absolutely verboten in his presence. He has no idea what to do with it and I can feel him recoil into the next galaxy. Not very comforting.

I'm not all that shot in the ass about this tearfulness myself, but I think I would only do myself harm to try to bind it up and trap it within. I've come to believe that's how people end up with terminal illnesses, their bodies are riddled with stuff they wouldn't allow themselves to release. So, I'll just cry, reckon, til it's all cried out.

There are other effects going on as well. I'm worn out or irritated or frustrated. There are perhaps explanations but no real justifications, in my opinion. It's just a general grating with a myriad of manifestations.

I don't want to be numb, but I also don't want to be the volley ball batted back and forth across the net between the Warm Fuzzies and Cold Pricklies. I like a more even sailing with the occasional spikes. The blind slam dunks are starting to wear on me. Even more explanation than being an aging female would help. That excuse doesn't do much to lift one's spirits.