I’ve drawn this card twice in three days, so I guess I’d better pay attention. I’m the dickhead in the cloak, mournfully surveying all I’ve lost. In this case, what looks like wine could equally be blood. I’m nearly a year into full-blown perimenopause, and the symptoms still knock me sideways on more days than not. There are long stretches of time over the past months when I’ve felt genuine despair over the loss of my vitality, looks and sensation. I’m not even 42, I wail inwardly, and already there are so many things that I can’t seem to do/be/feel anymore. But I’m ignoring the two full cups behind me, too intent on hoarding and stoking this resentment. Now I understand why there are fewer women than men at the top of the tree in this wretched society we have built. It’s because they get to this mid-point in life, look around, recognise the futility of grinding themselves into dust for money and status and fuck off to be with their cats and herb gardens. Cats and herb gardens do not grind one into dust: they provide succour and solace. But I will huddle in my cloak and survey the blasted rubble of my scorched kingdom for a little longer. The cloak is warm and I don’t have the energy to turn around.
