As if the very principle of being over 50 were not unfathomable enough, as if being back on the market over 50 were not a stroll through Hades, as if my body were not gravity's playground, amidst the havoc ridden exit of my own hormonal activity I have to deal with my last fledgling's periodic incarnations of a PMS demon.
As if I didn't feel bad enough that I can't get a date on Saturday night (or even a double-take from a bored doorman) and just when I need attention the most, I come home from a long day of work to hormonal grunts and steely stares that are my lot for having asked if she had a nice day; and how DARE I insist over and over and over again that she talk to me when she doesn't feel like talking.
Recidivist that I am, I have been sentenced yet again to solitary confinement to ponder my misdeeds; she enters her sanctuary to read, where no mother may enter lest they breath her air.
I am spending another evening alone with my laptop, book and remote control. There's a lot to be said for that scenario, but after a few years, even that grows old.
Years ago, in the throes of loneliness after divorce, a wise child psychologist warned me that making my child my best friend was too big a responsibility for them.
I have internalized that concept so much so that I can honestly say, NO, it is not enough that I have my children, work and home. They do not fill all of my emotional needs. Their attention, whether it be genuine or because I control the car keys, does not replace the caressing attention of a man.
That being said, for lack of a date on a Friday night, I'm really happy when all the kids are around. We curl up on the sofa to a movie, a bucket of ice cream and 4 spoons.
And for a few hours, all is good in the world.