Uncle! I’m calling uncle. Enough. I thought I could handle the social distancing, the school closures, the quarantine, but I can’t. My perimenopausal self was not made for this madness.
Every day here at chez Wilson is a crap shoot, mostly because I don’t know what kind of garbage I’ll have to deal with nor how well I’ll respond (my emotional fuel tank indicator broke on Day 6). Will my husband, Doo, now working from home, sit too close while eating a chicken taco, driving me mad with his loud chewing? Will my oldest pick a fight with his arch-nemesis, his younger K-poppin’ sister, forcing me to mediate between the inane and the stupid? Will her twin brother suck me into yet another depressing diatribe about how much he hates Indiana and longs to be back in the great state of California? Will my 16-year-old decide to bake brownies at midnight, awaking me from my restless but all too precious slumber? Will we run out of toilet paper? Will someone start coughing? Will I lose my effing mind?
Granted, certain weeks are better than others. Depending on my hormone levels, I can be either Little Orphan Annie (“The sun’ll come out tomorrow, kids! We got this!”), or Sweeney Todd (“I will cut every last one of you!”). When I’m feeling positive, I remember to extend grace and appreciate the important things, like employment and good health. But when the Butcher of Fleet Street emerges, it’s passive-aggressive irritability like you’ve never seen. I’m truly a master.
So, I call “uncle!” My family and my sanity cannot take this much longer. Peace out.