My Uterus Refuses to Retire and I Need to Speak to Management

Let me explain something to y’all real slow and real clear.
I am approaching 48 years old, and my period is still showing up like it owns stock in this body.
Not renting.
Not visiting.
Owning property.
At this point, my uterus should be sending postcards from Florida, not threats from inside my abdomen.
I have been bleeding since cassette tapes were still a thing. Since people had house phones. Since we had to memorize phone numbers. Since McDonald’s had ashtrays. WHY ARE WE STILL DOING THIS?
Somebody forgot to shut down the factory.
And don’t let these doctors lie to you with that soft voice either.
“Oh you might be entering perimenopause.”
Might??
MIGHT??
Ma’am, I been “might”-ing for five years. Either fire the band or start the parade. Pick a struggle.
Here’s how it happens.
Ain’t no warning. Ain’t no gentle arrival. No soft music. No calendar reminder. No email notification.
My period does not knock.
She kicks the door in like she got a warrant and backup.
I be minding my business — peaceful — living my best low-stress, don’t-talk-to-me, leave-me-alone life.
I might be:
cleaning the kitchen
rolling something relaxing
watching crime shows
reorganizing something I already reorganized twice
Then suddenly — BOOM.
Pain.
Not discomfort. Not cramps. Pain with personality. Pain with a mission statement.
I drop where I stand like somebody unplugged me.
I be folded up on the floor like a broken lawn chair whispering,
“Okay Lord… I know I asked for transformation but this feels aggressive.”
Let’s talk about endometriosis for a minute.
Nobody explains this correctly.
They say it like it’s a condition.
It is not a condition.
It is a monthly internal betrayal.
It feels like my uterus is in there rearranging furniture with a baseball bat.
You ever seen one of them home renovation shows where they just start knocking walls down with no plan?
That’s what’s happening inside me.
Open concept suffering.
And don’t let me catch one more man in my comments talking about:
“Have you tried drinking water?”
Sir.
Respectfully.
I will drink water at your funeral.
Water is not going to stop my reproductive organs from staging a hostile takeover.
Now let’s discuss the temperature nonsense.
Because what in the hormonal HVAC system is going on?
I will be FREEZING.
I’m talking: hoodie
sweatpants
socks
blanket
space heater
attitude
Five minutes later I am stripping like I owe the IRS money.
Not cute stripping either. Panicked stripping.
Throwing clothes across the room. Yelling at fabrics.
“I NEVER LIKED YOU ANYWAY.”
My thermostat is possessed.
Then come the mood swings.
Let me tell you something — my emotions are on shuffle mode.
I cried at a commercial.
Got irritated at a spoon.
Forgave three people from 1998.
Got mad again.
Ate a snack.
Cried again because the snack was good.
All in 20 minutes.
I almost argued with my microwave because it beeped too aggressively.
Don’t look at me like that — it knew what it did.
And the exhaustion??
Oh my God.
This level of tired should require paperwork.
I’m tired in my bones.
In my eyelashes.
In my passwords.
I took a nap the other day and woke up confused about what year it was and who the president might be.
My body said: “We shutting down early. Figure it out.”
Let’s talk about the cramps again because they deserve their own documentary.
These cramps don’t hurt like normal pain.
They come with sound effects.
My stomach be making noises like an old haunted house.
I be sitting there breathing like I’m in labor with a demon.
Inhale — regret.
Exhale — negotiation.
I be trying to bargain with organs I cannot see.
“Listen. Listen. We can be cool. We don’t have to do all this.”
My uterus be like: “Oh we absolutely do.”
And can we talk about the disrespect of timing?
It always shows up when I have plans.
Never when I’m bored. Never when I got nothing to do.
Only when I need to function.
Important call? — cramps.
Event? — cramps.
Errand day? — cramps.
Cute outfit? — cramps + bloating + betrayal.
I put on jeans and my body says: “Absolutely not. Try again next week.”
And let me say this clearly:
I am READY for menopause.
Bring her here.
Send her now.
Kick the door in.
I will welcome menopause with snacks and a folding chair.
People be scared of menopause — not me.
Menopause is retirement.
Menopause is freedom.
Menopause is my uterus clocking out and turning in her badge.
Because this current employee is doing too much.
And before somebody says, “Be grateful for your womanhood…”
I am.
But also — this design needs revision.
We need a software patch.
A firmware update.
A recall.
Meanwhile I got heating pads, medication, tea, stretching, breathing, prayer, snacks, cussing, and negotiation — and my uterus still acting like she got tenure.
Tenure!!
Who approved that??
Let me tell you what really makes it wild though.
In between the chaos — I will still be funny.
Still cracking jokes.
Still talking shit.
Still narrating my own suffering like a documentary.
“Here we observe the wild hormonal storm in its natural habitat. Notice how she survives entirely on sarcasm and snacks.”
Because if I don’t laugh, I’m gonna start writing complaint letters to my organs.
So if you see me during this time:
Bring chocolate.
Bring patience.
Bring silence.
Do NOT bring:
stupid questions
loud opinions
relationship talks
or dry chicken
This is a hormone emergency zone.
Proceed accordingly.
And to my uterus, if you reading this:
Your contract has expired.
Pack your things.
Clock out.
Security is on the way.