Are you there God, it’s me, paunchy

Margaret Simon, narrator of the ground-breaking novel by Judy Blume which blew the lid off of “menstroo-ation,” was 12 years old in 1970. I channeled her the other morning while plucking my chin.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret. I looked for you when I was awake at 3 this morning, but you must have been comforting the sick or stilling the waters, because I didn’t hear back from you. Now I’m a little sleepy, but I have that presentation this afternoon, and I’ll never get through my email if I don’t get in early.

I feel like a balloon. And what I wonder, God, is if you realize that I just had my period. There is little use in having it at all anymore, so twice in one month is just overkill. If you will.

There is a fishing line growing out of my neck, which I can feel, but can’t find. The line in my bifocals gets in the way the closer I get to the mirror.

It seems like my navel is much lower than it used to be, and maybe that is supposed to happen. Except Nancy’s seems to be in the middle of her chest. Gretchen says it was lifted, but I’m sure that if Nancy had a lift, we all would have heard about it.

Please tell me I have at least 10 more years in cue shoes, because I bought a pair yesterday. I put up with the wicking nightgown and I am grateful for the hidden elastic waistband, but if I could just keep my pumps a little longer, I’ll never ask for another thing.

Well. Yes, I will. But I am not being hysterical.
Thank you, God.