20 months

I am willing to write off the last 20 months of bad life, if only there was a promise that I'd get 20 extra at the end. I wish I could know now. That way I can decide not to be a bitter woman. I am perilously close to being one. It is very unattractive.

Menopause is winking at me and I'd really like to dive into that one with a light heart and good humor. I will write a little poem:

You would not want to be hated
And thought of like a slob
Stuck in my closet all cremated
Cause you messed up my job

You could be up there on the mantel
Where everyone could gaze
With knick knacks and a dusty candle
And some dead flowers in a vase

What you told him wasn't true
Those lies you told your friend
I was just trying to save you
From a reckless driving end