There has been a dilation in the senses and the world is streaming in. There’s a wobble, an extra charge in the system, a surplus of sensation. More data, more feelings, depth in every direction, and this overload of power needs a clear path to move through. It’s on a mission, and it’s pissed.

Those eggs pop out of ripening follicles with military time, left, right, left, right, ovary, ovary. Not enough food, too bad, here it comes. The stress of moving or traveling seems to encourage the little things, so does tragedy and loss. The cycle of human fertility has no decency, periods show up even in the worst possible moments. In fact, you can count on it.

Instead of luminous, silvery strands framing my face, I got limp hay the color of mouse turds. My deep chestnut hair, which used to light up with copper bolts in the sunshine, has turned to dirty dishwater. My hair hasn’t turned grey, or white, or pewter, it’s been drained of color. Remember those cotton string mops that you used to glimpse in the closets of your elementary school or the one you used to push in your first job at the ice cream shop? That’s what’s we are talking about, shades of old, used mop.

There on a two page spread were the words writ large — they are now selling a cure for Vaginal Atrophy, a terrible turn of events I didn’t even know was possible. A healthy, beautiful woman with streaks of grey and elegant lines looked out from the page, serious, sexy and desirable, looking right at me to say, Yes, your crotch is going to turn to dust, and I’m here to help you.