Hormotional

by K. S. Adkins

  My inner stripper abandoned me in my thirties, replacing her with a grouchy woman who despised cotton, Lycra, and underwire bras.

  Last night, Lincoln’s latest p-o-t-w (pussy-of-the-week) hosted happy hour and forced me to go.

  Unfortunately, my hair and makeup lasted all of an hour, the drinks making the hot flashes even more frequent, and by eleven I had enough. Magazines, movies, and even strangers love to preach how women should embrace the changes to their bodies. I wasn’t embracing shit. I hated sweating and bouts of crying for no fucking reason. Or wondering when my thighs would stop expanding and slapping like sticky bodies in a porno when I walked.

  Don’t even get me started on random body parts itching for no good reason.

  Plainly put, not having control of your own body was the worst kind of hell. Especially when you venture into public looking like you ran a marathon inside of a steam room and lost.

  See, I was at that age where I couldn’t figure out where I fit in, which had nothing to do with menopause.

  At forty-one, I still saw myself as young. Because fuck that, forty-one is young.

  Yet, society keeps trying to speed up my aging process. Stuffing me in an age appropriate box.

  A fact that was shoved in my face every time I needed clothes. While I gravitated toward the junior department for style, my body type left the junior years behind along with thongs. I refused to shop in the Misses section because I did have some fashion sense, but wasn’t my mother just yet either. Seriously, there was no in-between.

  There are even articles, blogs, and books written to explain shit like: How to dress over forty, Best hair styles for women over forty, or Fabulous at forty.

  So, I decided to pick my battles, which meant not giving a Detroit-fuck about what’s in and what isn’t.

  I decided to hold onto my meager wardrobe, praying I didn’t gain too much weight. Otherwise I was screwed—and naked.

  I’ve even been given the You still look good for your age line of shit more than once.

  Um, excuse me? Still?

  At what age exactly does looking good end for women? Because as far as I was concerned, I’m a dime.

  Now, do you see why I don’t go out much?

  I hated people!

  Yet, for my guys I showed up, only to spend more time outside getting air than inside enjoying the company.

  Menopause was difficult, and I was no closer to coming to terms with it. I felt like I was walking around with a banner that said, fuck with me, seriously, I do tricks. My patience was constantly being tested. The people I encountered on a daily basis had no idea that when they spoke, I was plotting ways to kill them. They never knew how difficult it was for me to let them walk away alive.

  I was so fucking sick of hearing, you’re too young. But cancer didn’t give a shit how old you are. It didn’t discriminate, and it sure as fuck wasn’t kind.

  When I was diagnosed with cervical cancer, I went into fight mode. I listened to my doctor, had the hysterectomy, and never mourned ditching my lady parts. I did whatever it took to get healthy.

  So, menopause was just an inconvenience I would deal with for a while.

  Except that it turned out to be more difficult than I expected.

  It made me emotional at best, psychotic at worst. And believe me, I wasn’t what you’d call, sweet in the first place. At this stage in my life, I was literally the very worst version of myself. The guys saw, they knew what I was dealing with, but they never teased me about it (much). Probably because they feared for their jobs and ability to procreate. So, in an effort not to let it affect the group, I constantly excused myself to have a meltdown in private.

  Outside.

  I just wanted to be left alone when a kid Ram’s age wouldn’t step off.

  The idiot likely saw me raising my shirt and thought I was trying to give him a show. I wasn’t giving him shit. Actually, I was trying to cool off. I was overheated, sweating profusely, and crabby as fuck. Then shit happens where a man decides to push his attention on me whether I wanted it or not.

  Assuming I did, in fact, want it.

  It wasn’t the first time this has happened. It just happened to be the time I reached my fucking limit.

  I was simply standing off to the side, minding my own business, when he decided to harass me.

  After the first sexual comment, I wanted to dick-kick him and then slap his parents for raising a pig. I even gave him the chance to walk away, but he wouldn’t stop. He just kept pushing, saying inappropriate things to goad me.

  As if females at any age should have to put up with the catcalling bullshit.

  As soon as he touched me I reacted. Who gets in a fight at forty-one? Me, that’s who.

  For shit’s sake, I punted the little prick and quoted P!nk...

  So yeah, fuck you, menopause, don’t tell me how to live my life.

  “Ma,” Ram said, turning toward me. He handed me another beer, forcing me to focus. Focusing just wasn’t easy these days.

  “My boss said his car needed some work, I told him to come see you for the hook up.”

  This man was my son’s employer, so he would, in fact, get hooked up. Besides, a business owner never turned down an opportunity to network, even if she will be otherwise slightly crazy for the next few years.

  “As long as it’s not a smart car, I’ll help him out,” I said which made the guys laugh. We had a thing about soup cans with tires. As in, we refused to work on them.

  “You’d like him,” Ram continued. “And I know he’d like you.” Always trying to marry me off, that kid of mine.

  “Your Ma,” Benz said, winking, “needs to get laid.”

  My son was twenty-four, raised in a garage with foulmouthed perverts, and nothing surprised or shocked him anymore. Mother Teresa, I was not, but I was honest to a fault. I didn’t lie to Ram or sugarcoat things. If I went out, he knew about it. But I never brought it home, ever. That part of my life didn’t touch Ram. So, comments like this didn’t razz him. He knew I had a thing about commitment. He also knew when it came to dating, I was protective of my adult son. If I lived to be one hundred, I would worry about Ram.

  I was his mother, period.

  The title didn’t disappear when he hit eighteen.

  And it never would.

  “What happened to the biker?” Diesel boomed, scaring the shit out of me. While the guy didn’t say much, when he did it was loud and unexpected. "He had a stupid name. What was it again?"

  “Biker?” Lincoln scratched his head, confused because he prided himself on keeping track of my social life. “There was a biker?”

  “His bike was fantastic,” I recalled. “He…was not.”

  “Ma,” Ram laughed, tapping my rim with his own. “Seriously, you’ve got to meet Luke.”

  “His last name is Luke?”

  “No, it’s Temple, but he likes being called Luke.”

  “You call your boss by his first name?”

  “He’s laid-back,” he shrugged. “Hates being formal. His rule, not mine.”

  “Lizzy,” Benz shouted, which sent my beer flying. “Get the kid a raise, bang his boss.”

  “How about I settle for fixing his car and keeping my kid gainfully employed?”

  Just then, I was hit with a massive power surge and started fanning myself. Lincoln noticing this, elbowed my son. “She’s already getting hot and bothered just thinking about it. We each get a cut of your bonus, kid.”

  “You okay, Ma?” Ram asked, ignoring Lincoln. My son, he worried about me, a lot.

  “Diesel, toss me another beer so I can pour it over my head to cool off.” Catching it midair, I held it up and the guys do the same.

  “To Ram,” I announced proudly with emotion clogging my throat. “Cheers to making this fucked up world a safer place.”

  The smile he gave me was worth every sacrifice I have ever made. Him linking his fingers with my own had me tearing up
. Resting my head on his shoulder, I allowed myself to think about how proud Jon would be. How Ram’s dad had so much potential and squandered it. Because of a few bad choices, he missed out on this. He never saw his boy grow up. He left his son fatherless. He left me to figure it out, alone.

  And I still hadn’t forgiven him for this.

  Most days, I didn’t think of Jon in terms of what if. Most days, I tried not to think about Jon at all. Because it brought me nothing but anger, and no one to take it out on. The past needed to stay in the past, and I needed to make more of an effort to keep it there.

  My son was grown-up, moving on, and setting up his future.

  It’s what I fought for, the way it’s supposed to be. You raise your kids to one day let them go.

  I knew this.

  Yet, it saddened me.

  Because I wasn’t ready.

  Ram was always telling me the right man was out there waiting for me.

  I’d convinced myself I had my shot, and after burying him, searching for a replacement was pointless.

  Though, as I’ve gotten older I realized that while I loved Jon fiercely, I wasn’t entirely certain we had what it took to go the distance. Love would have only seen us through for so long. The shit he’d been pulling would likely have ended us eventually. It had just caught up to him sooner rather than later, making the decision for both of us. Death was funny though. While I watched Jon die at my feet and cried as the medics covered his body with a sheet and took him away, he never felt…dead.

  Even as he was lowered into the ground, loss wasn’t how I would describe the experience.

  For me, it was more like…waiting.

  Though, twenty-two years later, I still didn’t know what I was waiting for.

  I’ve analyzed it a million different ways and always came back to the same conclusion.

  I was robbed of the chance to say goodbye.

  I lost count of how many times I felt his smile on my skin or heard his laughter from a distance. Mornings when I woke covered in blankets I didn’t remember unfolding. The guys bitching at each other when their tools weren’t where they left them. A light being left on here and there...

  Of course, this shit drove me crazy. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make it go away either. Like Jon was still here. Still a part of me. But he wasn’t. His autopsy report and grave marker were proof of this.

  But for whatever reason, my brain hasn’t received the memo.

  Early on, I shared this with my mom. She was the only one I could trust to level with me. And she told me it was normal. Like a phantom limb or shit like that. So, I adapted to it, did my best to ignore it, but the sensation, the knowing, never left me.

  She thought I avoided relationships because of this.

  She thought that even though he’s gone, a part of me felt I was being disloyal.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  But I didn’t know how to make it right.

  I didn’t know if I wanted to.

  I was used to these sensations whether I made them up or not. They comforted me, made me feel less alone.

  The day I let them go, I would lose the last piece of him forever.

  Looking at my son, I focused on him and let thoughts of Jon slip away.

  There was only so much a parent could shield their kids from. Luckily, Ram was too young to remember that night, but it will stay with me forever. It also made me extremely overprotective of those I loved.

  Because tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed.

  A lesson I learned at a very young age.

  Telling my son I was sick was the hardest thing I had ever done because I saw the fear of losing his mother in his eyes. So, I beat cancer’s ass for Ram. I wanted my son to have one less thing taken from him. He’d lost his dad, he wasn’t losing me. It took a lot of hospital visits and a shitload of prayers, but six months ago, I was told, while Ram’s fingers were linked with mine, that I was cancer free.

  Ram still worried, and I still reassured him I was here and healthy. Shit happens and life goes on. But as long as I walked this earth, I was always available to hold his hand.

  When he whispered, “Love you, ma,” I kissed my kid’s cheek and asked him when he officially starts work. Turns out, he started immediately. Apparently, his boss had given him a test project. Being that I own the shop, he’d asked Ram to get permission to set up his project here. I’d do anything for my son, so the answer was yes. Besides, I wasn’t going to say no to a complimentary security system even if the offer seemed a bit extravagant. It had been on my get-around-to list for years, and now I could scratch it off.

  According to Ram, Luke Temple, his car, and his equipment would be here tomorrow night after we closed up shop.

  Many beers later, the jokes were still flying about me boning his boss to get Ram a raise. While I laughed and was a good sport about it, I was stuck thinking about the guy with the thick, dark hair laced with the perfect amount of grey and bright eyes who was trying to compliment me at the bar last night. And I was wondering why I wished he’d done it while he was buried inside of me.

  You’re the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen.

  I didn’t have the chance to ask him how much he’d been drinking.

  Ram’s first day went so well it made me wonder what the fuck I was even needed for. He knew shit even I didn’t know, and I was in the business of knowing things. I was supposed to be training him, instead, it was him training me. If he caught on, he didn’t show it, and between the two of us, we handled shit quickly and efficiently. This kid was no millennial. Not only did he possess a strong work ethic, he showed respect and wasn’t averse to taking criticism. Not that I had much to offer. The kid took to security like an infant to a tit. It was mildly embarrassing.

  When I asked general questions about his life, goals, and future his response was simple; he wanted to make the world a safer place. It was a good answer; he was a good fucking kid.

  Not a kid.

  A man.

  Albeit compared to me, a young one.

  Raised by his mom. A woman he adored so much it radiated from him.

  I casually asked about her, which had Ram giving me her bio, and her role in his life. It was crystal clear his mom expected him to make something of himself and busted her ass, staying on his, to ensure he did.

  According to Ram, the family business ended with her.

  While he loved cars, his passion was technology.

  She supported him to follow that dream.

  It took one hell of a mom—woman—to stand by her kid like this.

  A woman I couldn’t stop thinking about. A woman I was dying to touch. A woman I had no business feeling this way about, but gave up the fight the second I laid eyes on her.

  As far as security went, Ram’s job was installing and monitoring software for specific jobs. The job wasn’t bullshit. I truly did need the help. Whereas I mostly did the background work, I needed him to learn to set up surveillance at a moment’s notice. He may know his shit, but he still had a lot to learn in the field, so I gave him a project. He was to set up his mom’s place with our equipment and do so on the clock.

  Willing to do anything for her son, she had agreed. Plus, she thought she was getting a complimentary system out of the deal. In a sense, she was. Meaning she’d be given a password and instructions to use it for the shop. Except there would be a secondary system in place she won’t have access to, or even know existed for that matter.

  And neither would her son.

  Elizabeth Hudson lived to help her boy out.

  So, I hooked him up with a truck full of equipment that he’d need to get the job done.

  He knew this was a test, and if he failed he faced replacement.

  It was total bullshit, but he didn’t know that.

  I needed an opportunity, and I needed Ram distracted.

  Since his mom’s life was cars, and word was she was the best, I bought a junker and
tossed out needing it restored. He, of course, assured me she’d be happy to hook me up. Not only was her shop going to be rigged, this piece of shit I bought had the industry’s finest installed inside as well. There wouldn’t be a square inch or shadow inside Hudson’s concrete walls I wouldn’t have access to.

  In less than an hour, I’d be in close proximity to Elizabeth Hudson.

  I couldn't have her thinking I was an asshole, so that meant attempting to charm.

  The problem was I lacked the gene.

  Last night, she had a few drinks in her, had been distracted and weepy. Tonight, she would be on her home turf, so that wouldn’t be the case. In the event she wasn't happy to see me, I made sure the install would happen after her guys left, ensuring they weren't around to weigh in.

  While Ram did his thing, I would do my best to seduce his extremely hot, single, (suspect) mother.

  I knew Ram would get his end done on time. I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to do mine.

  “I’ll be running a few minutes late,” I said after sufficiently loading his truck. “She’s still cool with me stopping by?”

  “Yeah, she’s cool,” he said while closing the door. “She lives above the shop and said she doesn’t have plans tonight. The guys left, so you’ll be dealing with her directly while I work.”

  “She uh…have plans a lot?” I asked stupidly. I immediately knew I put him on the spot. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

  “If you mean dating, I don’t think so, since she’s never brought a guy home,” he said somewhat sadly. “Said until she meets one who’s worthy, she won’t. I’m twenty-four years old, Luke. You don’t have to read between the lines to see it. Ma has plans,” he drew out slowly, and shit, we somehow turned plans into fucking and it was awkward. “And once you see her you’ll get why her plans don’t get cancelled.”

  This did not make me feel better, yet, I asked, “But you’d be cool if she wanted to date, exclusively?”

  “I want my ma to have someone,” he said, starting the engine. “But he would have to be one hell of a someone to get her to settle down. It’d be nice to give my ma’s guy some shit though. Be the asshole kid who wants to protect her.”