Slob Goblins of Hope

It me.

The title of this piece came to me first, as is often the case. It bubbled up from the deep sludge of my subconscious and rang true immediately. I am a slobby goblin in the wake of three periods in 40 days (thanks, perimenopause!). Sweatpants, ponytail, hate-watching dumb shows while over-snacking. When I meet with clients I throw makeup on my face and a blazer on my body, and it works, but just barely.

Historically I’ve always tried to arrange my schedule to provide a kind of shabbos for my period. The week leading up to it was always intense, and the physical symptoms ramped up until the first day, after which they ramped back down again, and I could chillax on the couch in peace every night until the whole thing came to an end. But this was only possible because my ovulatory, luteal and menstrual phases were predictable. Now all bets are off, and the entire process is, well, fucked up, and there’s no end in sight.

Of course there is. Older friends down at the finish line have been cheering me on as I get closer and closer. We talk about everything, everything. Our MAGA-pilled siblings and dimented elderly fathers. Our remedies for aching joints and sleeplessness. A friend tells me she can smell the stress of this political moment in her hot flashes. She smells like a gun, like a river clogged with oil. Another friend tells me she suddenly can’t remember her terrible father’s face, and she feels a relief that she never could have imagined. Another says she is afraid to tend to herself, to dress in clean clothes and makeup, because she is freaked out by her own aging process and can’t bear to make the world look more closely at her. Yet another, who is going through a divorce, says that her mother was wrong about everything but especially marriage. She doesn’t know when her grief will be over, but she’s planning her first vacation in ages. We talk about a mutual friend who was so devastated by what happened in Gaza on October 7th 2023 that she hasn’t left her house since then.

Our conversation drifts to what is happening in the world right now. We press all the buttons, Ukraine and Tehran and Minnesota and LA. We chew over the same questions in each case: who has the power, and how much of it, and for how long? Who is watching, and for what purpose? What is the strongest, most effective manner of resistance? What is the cost of fighting, and of surviving?

Through all of it, we are seeking reliable glimmers and tokens of hope. Mine are simple, and they are everywhere: my neighbors’ gardens swollen with spring, shimmering greens and blazing poppy reds. The crackling calls of crows and ravens, monarch butterflies yellowing across blue morning windows. The small pink feet of a friend’s 10-year old daughter underneath the straps of her green sandals. Cinnamon smells from a passing car, baked goods or vaping, whatever gets you through. The city maintenance workers hovering over a manhole cover speak an African dialect laced with French that I can almost understand, and my mind swims in the sound like music. Voices of old friends from Vancouver, we remembered how to talk on the phone again! Hubs’ hair after he’s had a long day, quiffed up like a 50s rocker. Beloved song lyrics from a GenX childhood: I look to the time with you/ to keep me awake and alive.

I don’t know we stay awake and alive through all of this world chaos without losing our sanity. I don’t know when my period will stop. I don’t even know what this essay is about! Friendship, I guess, and deep gratitude for people who can love us even in our slob-gobblinest state. In the middle of world chaos, in the middle of life, in the middle of a third period, that’s more than I could have hoped for.