We Call Her 'Meangan'.

We call her 'Meangan'.

She visits once or twice a month, on the winds of change or frustration or sadness. She levels tall feelings with a single blow; she lays on a thick, sticky layer of cynicism and guilt; she excels at destroying and breaking and burning her many bridges.

We are not sure from where or why she comes, and what she necessarily wants, but we do know we can't mess around with her. She doesn't take any shit from anyone, and this is often demonstrated by her severe brow, crossed arms, and tightly pursed lips. She takes no prisoners, and no situations are spared. She even recently had an episode in front of a nice middle-aged waiter, because she didn't like the way her husband was making decisions. It was pretty ugly.

Anyway, Jon and I aren't quite sure how to handle her. In London, we used to figure that a long run or a hot bath with a good book would make her melt into the background. Sometimes a good few Nelly songs on the dance floor worked, too - what will all the "must be the money!".

But here, in the distant air of foreign grounds, with the language confusing and the different smells and the gap between us and the real world growing larger every day, Meangan seems to show her ugly furrowed face a lot more, these days.

I don't blame her, partly. It's hard to be on the road, and it doesn't help with the language barrier and being constantly with the same person. Still, let's be honest, here: Meangan is a total bitch. She wasn't invited to this party and she doesn't belong here, with those pokey elbows and those button lips.

The other day, we found a nice afternoon nap - cuddle included - temporarily asuaded her. But the next morning, after her freshly laundered jeans were splashed by dirty water in the quaintly cobbled Buenos Aires streets, she was back and bold as ever, rolling her squinty eyes at her husband in Spanish class and marching out into the mid-morning air in a surge of stubborness. Not food or drink or hugs or cute new clothes could stop her this time. Dude: it was ram. PAGE.

So we ask ourselves, what is it? What is it that turns a normal person into Meangan? Is it simply PMS? Is it low blood sugar? Side effects of a birth control implant? Not enough hot baths or long runs? Is it a backlash of hormonal broodiness? A chemical imbalance in the brain? Is it hereditary or age or is it because of being constantly on the move? My god, WHAT IS IT?

I think the most frustrating part of this is that, while Jon and I have finally decided (with much talking and many tears) perhaps its something we need to take further - with a doctor or counsellor or head-shrinker of sorts - is that any right-minded specialist would hear of this 'Meangan', and our current lifestyle, and simply say what I've guessed all along: that I need to stabilize my life and then re-evaluate it. But what I know that perhaps they don't, is that Meangan just won't, for all our hard work and prayers and for all of the patience of my poor husband, go away.

And for all the hot baths and the marathons in the world, I just wish she would.