All Whine. No Cheese.

I woke up this morning from a terrible dream in which I was heading to jail for an unknown crime and in my arms, I held my daughter. Halfway there, I said to the friendly lady driving the SUV, "Oh wait. Will I be able to take my daughter with me?" and she laughed and said, "No. She'll go to daycare."

Perhaps it says something about me that the idea of being incarcerated didn't faze me, but the thought of my daughter being tended by strangers freaked me out. She's a clingy vine of a girl and to pluck her from me would be to kill her. Or at least turn her into a whiner.

So I woke up feeling panicked and despondent and that mood has plagued me all day. In a classic downward spiraling thought pattern, I've reminded myself of all that is wrong and sad in my life.

For instance, my bangs are wonky, and by that, I do mean "askew." My natural curl has developed a devious mind of its own and if I could, I would set my head aflame in revenge. I can't decide what to do. More bangs? Less bangs? No bangs? Bang-bang! I need a revolver. (No bangs is a bad idea. Have you seen my forehead lately? There's a reason for that.) I need to call my colorist. Maybe that would make me feel better. I need a stylist, too, one who works miracles.

My house is shabby and not in a chic way. Although I am not too proud to accept hand-me-downs, sometimes I wish I had three wishes. I'd spend one of them on a nice, new, custom-built, furnished home. With a view. From my vantage point, I am within view of the following second-hand items: television stand, couch, lamp, chair, desk, Little Tikes kitchen, coffee table, kitchen table, kitchen chairs, trash compactor, preschool-sized table, shelf, buffet, piano, kids' desk . . . and though I am normally satisfied with my thrifty purchases, not today. Today I'm despondent because my daughter was ripped from my arms in a dream.

My age annoys me. I fully intended to be a young mother--a young, stylish mother--and then infertility pushed me in a corner and my twins came when I was 28. Not too old, right? But then, a second child when I was 33, and the last when I was 37. Now I will most certainly be the oldest kindergarten mother. Which. Okay. Fine. Big deal.

I would like to note that when my mother was my age, I was in my second year of college. See?

And what about the Rest of My Life? Anvilcloud will say this is typical for my age but angst still feels icky. I intended to start prerequisites for a nursing degree this year, but I postponed it for another year. How can I fit another duty into my life when I already want to run away some days?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. See that? Time's ticking away! I prop my elbows on my second-hand desk and cradle my forehead in my cold hands. Cold hands! I practically have one foot in the grave already! My hands are cold and soon, my heart will stop pumping entirely and my daughter will wail her loss and they'll roll me into a grave and that will be that.

I won't have any cool accomplishments to put in that newspaper obituary. I can't stop reading the obituaries, which is why I am aware of how young some people are when they die. Plus, the fact that my own dad was 47. FORTY-SEVEN. If I die when I am 47, I only have six more years. Six. More. Years.

I want to be alone. I'm lonely! I want to sleep. I want to stay up late! I want a clean house. I want to ignore housework!

I need one of those fancy psychiatrists to patch my two halves back together again and infuse me with cheerfulness.

Do you know that my 99-year old grandmother still worries about her weight? I want to stop worrying about my weight--and my wonky bangs--before I turn 99. Is that too much to ask?

Of course, I can count my blessings, name them one by one. I can. I do. I remember. But sometimes, the skies stay gray all day, my brow stays furrowed, and I feel like weeping.

This ridiculous moodswing brought you courtesy of:

--My Uterus--

--now wreaking havoc for thirty-one miserable years--