Mountain Counseling Session

So, I’ve been…let’s call it Januarying…in late February.

No idea why my dark time is running so late.

And I’ve been trying to beat the pissiness out of me.

Fourteen road miles on Sunday. Beautiful Beastie’s Body Pump Class Monday night.

“We just did 120 presses!”

“Well, that seems…unnecessarily excessive.”

But it was necessary.

Because it pulled me out. A bit. Stopped the tears, at any rate.

Poor Handsome Son. Thinking he’d surprise me with breakfast Monday morning. Do something nice for his momma. Could not have been expecting the sudden onslaught of tears the minute he walked into my office.

But because I’m really excellent at making excellent humans. He just hugged me until I stopped. No questions. No hesitation.

Meanwhile, co-workers are just walking by like, “Oh look. Sunshine’s crying again. So, anyway…”

Yep. Sure am.

I mean, it’s got to be some sort of menopause alert system, right?

That I’ll cry about any fucking thing now?

But also there are reasons.

And I laid those all out. In extended paragraph format. Via messenger. To Rogue and Fall Risk.

And if you’re unfamiliar with how fucking impressive Rogue is in her profession. Let me tell you. That bitch counseled me through every single piece of my bullshit. Via messenger. In a matter of minutes. While she sat in a fucking hospital. (Waiting for someone. She wasn’t actually hospitalized. Although, I’m certain that wouldn’t have stopped her.)


That’s super hero level counseling right there.

And I don’t even pay her.

What I do instead, is make her run Roanoke Mountain with me. So we can explore the trail at the top that no one told me about. And that I only discovered on Sunday. After some rando came running out of the woods at me. Fucking up my reverie.

And during that run. I make her listen to an extended live version of my bullshit. Complete with re-enactments.

And because we are we. We got distracted every half mile or so. By the absolutely beautiful sunset.

And we’d try to photograph it.

But the trees just fucked up the view.

I mean, better…

You gotta wait till you get to the top.

Where the trail is.

And the sun is setting quickly.

And I no longer have a light source.

And it’s us.

So we immediately get lost…


No. So ok.

See, there are no blazes on this trail. I assume because it’s only 25 yards long. According to OT.

I don’t know if that’s the official measure.

All I know is there are no blazes to follow.

So when the trail abruptly stops. At this.


Which way do you think…

But because Rogue and I are the really excellent trail runners with a solid instinct for direction that we are…

Meh. Let’s climb over it and see where the Forrest takes us.

We found it, though.

For the record. I don’t think it actually straight shots back to the parking lot. That’s just my Strava. Sometimes she just shuts the hell down when she’s tired of my bullshit.

And I have to wake her back up. To finish the run.

By the time we were back down the mountain, I was nearly back to 100%.

So we headed over to Lews to meet up with GJB and Lil T and Tiny Brazilian and OT and the other RVTR Tuesday night runners.

Where stories of just really exceptionally bad dating choices made Rogue and I feel sooo much better about our non-dating choices.

So today life isn’t awful. (It never actually was.)

So I can maybe get through the day without weeping in front of anyone.

No promises. Because I’m pretty sure that’s what my menopause is gonna look like.

Just constant tears.

For unclear reasons.

Y’all gonna have to learn to ignore those.

The way my co-workers have.

But as long as I’ve got my people and my mountains. I maybe won’t need to be medicated.

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