one woman's quest to live the life she's imagined all while daring you to do the same

Sorry Dudes, Ladies Only


To say the last few days have been challenging would be an understatement of epic proportions. Perhaps I’m just not built Ford tough like I’d once thought. It’s tricky to say. All I know is that it’s been touch and go over here in personal development paradise. Let’s just say there’s been a lot of self-coaching, deep breathing and extravagant pity parties.

Back story (the short version): Elisa broke her foot Thursday night playing basketball. Friday she got a walking cast and crutches and was advised NOT to walk on it for at least three days.

She’s a chef and was booked tight for the early part of the week: two private clients, one catering gig.

Entrepreneurship = show must go on!

And a show it’s been.

As driver, shopping assistant, sou chef, dishwasher, sweeper, kitten entertainer, and trash patrol, I was in tears after 10+ hours.

I don’t know what happened. I just could not handle one more instruction.

The unusually hard tits that had graduated to  a full B cup overnight should have been my first clue.

And yet the tears continued, fully validated by the story I spun: “If I were busier, saving the world, she would never dare ask me to take time from my very important work to help. Plus, if I were more successful I could just tell her to cancel. That’s it. This is insane!”

“Besides, I can’t wait till I can fully provide for my family. What more do I have to do? I work so frickin hard!”

Blah, blah, blah …

I let Elisa finish in the kitchen while I sniffled my way through Day 11 Push, Squat, Core challenge. Then (another clue) I decided the toilet, tub and tile needed to be scoured at 12:30 AM. And while I was at it, why not hit the cat box, all the floors, and the laundry.

Monday was delivery day, which in Manhattan traffic only took four hours round trip. Elisa crashed when we got home. I would have too if my own work hadn’t been piling up while I’d been playing intern.

Thankfully I signed up for a kickboxing class Monday eve because where else can you go ape shit in public and burn calories at the same time?

It was later that eve, on my way home from Toastmasters, when I realized I hated everyone on the 4 Train (yet another sign.) It was stinkier and louder than usual. And why is it so slow? It is express; don’t they know that? Maybe I should ask the driver why it’s so damn slow.

The funny thing, I was meditating. Eyes closed, sitting tall, and literally talking shit about everyone and everything.

When I walked in the door late last night, I finally admitted to Elisa that I was pre-menstral and apparently my lapse in maca intake was really making this one a doozy.

“Look at my boobs. They’re huge!”

Neither of us slept last night. She couldn’t fall asleep and I couldn’t stay asleep. The alarm went off at eight AM and I felt like I hadn’t gotten but two winks.

She let me sleep till almost 9:30 AM, but I was still exhausted. Before I could even shake my dream, I was reminded that the grocery store awaited and we had a deadline …

[Aside:] My dream: I cheated on Elisa with an old ex-girlfriend by accident, only to find out that they were scheming together to see if I would do it. And Elisa was really Carrie Underwood. Doh!

Carrie Underwood wouldn’t make me drive her to the grocery store. I thought, feeling sexy and sorry for myself, sitting on the toilet.

Somehow I did pull myself together to be more chipper today until the co-op posed its own challenge. The parking, the beeping, the boxes, the wrong shopping basket.

When a box full of groceries slipped from my hands and the strawberries fell out into the cart, all while Elisa hobbled away clueless, I almost threw a tantrum right there in the middle of Union Street.

I could feel the heat bubbling up, the story beginning to spin. Elisa had loaded my smoothie with maca that morning, but nothing had kicked in yet.

Out poured the silent-treatment resentment and I was pissy until I could come back home and start over. Second breakfast. More maca. Nap.

Then the cry for help with dishes came. I could see the egg caked to the pan from the bedroom. We can’t even eat the frittatta!!, which somehow makes it even more difficult to scrub for days.

The frustration I’d been holding back all this time came out with a stern: Do not! I repeat, do not cook any more eggs in this pan. It sucks with eggs! Or else, I’m not cleaning it!

Just then, my phone rang. It was my new designer. The same designer who had called yesterday for our scheduled appointment, which I had totally forgotten about.

Oh shit!

Elisa told me to run and take the call and do my best. No worries. Unprepared or not.

It was then that I remembered that my dear, sweet, Elisa had gifted me a whole entire fancy new website for Christmas.

Here I was moaning and groaning chores, cursing dishes, and sniffling through gentle commands, when I realized what an asshole I was being.

Yes, the period was the icing on the cake. But this ain’t my first rodeo. And let’s be real, I should have known with the tits!

Even though the afternoon and eve would entail more dishes, more driving, more carting of chef shit and food, and, unbeknownst to me, serving and entertaining nearly the entire party, I was in much better spirits.

Perhaps it was the Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche audiobook I had firing in my ears on the road. Or maybe, it was the website reminder that had immediately turned my lack mindset to gratitude. Or, it could have been the heavy spanking on the pomegranates.

(4 poms in five minutes — this method — amazing!)

Either way, I was feeling more myself again. Nothing had changed really, all the circumstances, which just hours prior had all been so bleak, just were.

“For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” -William Shakespeare

I had recognized the hormone roller coaster, yes–yet, still allowed myself to take another trip on that old familiar ride.

I’ve watched myself mentally go there for the last three days and tempts to get back on the crazy train were difficult to turn down.

Maybe I’m out of practice. Like I said, a doozy like this has been a while. But something about just letting myself go plum crazy for a minute sounded so very frickin attractive.

What’s that about?

Really, what’s the lure of going off the deep end, losing your shit, flippin’ your lid, or even better, going mad as a march hare, nuttier than fruitcake, or losing your marbles?

Thankfully, all this nonsense was going on in me. Although it seemed totally rational at the time, I didn’t unload on Elisa. I wrote in my journal and had all out wars in my head, but to Elisa I never did more than pout, whimper and give the silent treatment.

Part of me might call that wisdom, or maturity.


Another part of me says, experience. Having learned time and time again, “This too shall pass.”

Our stories are just thoughts from which we tie endless emotions.

If we’re not careful we can get tangled in our own web of tired ol’ tales.

I leave you with this: 1) At first sign, accept you’re a little off your rocker. Denial makes it worse. 2) Don’t invest in any story lines that you know better not to. 3) Maca on the daily. For reals.


Much Crazy Love,


Kat hurley is a transformational author, speaker and personal development coach, making over motivation @The Year of Magical Dreaming. For the full 411, visit, yo!






2 Responses to “Sorry Dudes, Ladies Only”

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