Yeah, I know I owe you part two of the "Best Songs" blogpost first, but dammit, this is what you're getting! (And there will be TMI!)
I'm 50-and-a-half which means I'm right in the average age range of women who crone or, to put it into more commonly used nomenclature, women who reach menopause. Evidently I'm growing ever closer to my last "cycle" though the sad part is you can't throw it a party because you never know which one will be your last. Do I continue to be amazed by the revolutionary design materials of the Always Infinity into infinity--and should I keep that e-coupon loaded on my Safeway card--or I am simply collecting a goodie pile for the women's shelter in my bathroom cabinet? Sure, I'm late as late can be--and have no visible means of getting pregnant--but that has happened a few times before. I'm like Linus in the Most Sincere Feminine Products Aisle in the World waiting for the arrival of The Great Period.
To make things even more complicated, there are three stages of this blessed hallmark in a woman's life: perimenopause, natural menopause, and postmenopause. Let's take the first one, perimenopause, which means "close to menopause". I know that with aging I have accumulated a few types of "peri": periscope (you need to get CLOSE to be able to see anything), periodic table (you really should make fewer visits to the kitchen), and peripatetic (you believe it completely valid to count your nocturnal roamings around the house as exercize). But all of those trappings of my transition can be proven with simple math: the eyeglasses prescription increases, the scales beg for mercy, and sleep arrives in four-hour shifts at best. Where are my facts and figures for when perimenopause began or will end?
Next we come to natural menopause. This is a term coined by men. It has to be. So too is such advice as "enjoy each day as a gift made especially for you". To this I say, "Go fuck yourself." Asian women aren't known to have huge problems with menopause and many cultures do not even have a word equivalent to menopause. I have many. I can loan them some and not miss a beat. I've eaten soy in every form known to man, I've made black cohosh tea, I've eschewed caffeine (thank god I dropped that lunacy after a few years), I've meditated, and I've prayed at the altar of big pharma. To my negativity, I have done the following: written it down and burned it in the fireplace, washed it down the drain in the shower, sent it in a capsule to deepest outer space, tied it in a bag and dragged it behind the car until I could no longer see it, and put it on the head of an imaginary goat which I then shooed out of town. I still feel bad about the goat, but nothing worked permanently. Currently I am experiencing a measure of success with essential oils but I fear it's a race against time at this point and I don't know where my next fix will come from.
Finally we have postmenopause. This is, evidently, the Monday morning quarterbacking version of menses. Well you should've gone tampon and taken the pill forever no matter what. Not burying those placenta of yours was a real invitation to bad ju-ju. Can you imagine a group of women sitting around, no doubt with body paints, trying to have the best menopause story? It would be the reverse of the old you've-got-nothing-on-me-I-was-in-labor-for-79-days bullshit. In this "fish story" you'd be going for guppies not walleyes. I can name that life stage in three maxi pads. I can do it in two minis. I can do it with a pantyliner. Name that life stage!!
Am I hot? I wake up in a sauna every morning. Am I cold? Chicken skin pops out on me like pimples used to before a period. And by the way, nobody EVER mentioned the freezing side of that coin to me. Am I dry? Only my wit, thank goodness. Am I moody? Is that any of your *&#$*&@ business??
I will never forget the "All In The Family" episode when Archie stood by the dinner table, pinwheeling his arms wildly, demanding that Edith just go ahead and get it over with: "Okay Edith, you've got five minutes, now CHANGE!" Maude would never have taken that from Walter, but I still think Archie meant well. Sure, Edith wasn't being the Edith he knew and loved and it annoyed him, but down deep he knew that it bothered her too. No one should enjoy being a wet dishrag or a doormat--don't you accuse me of that you...I'm sorry--but everyone does get kinda used to their psychic reflection in the mirror. You know that gal, you can trust her. She may have more flaws than your discount store engagement diamond, but she's YOU.
I don't suppose that knowing which phase I'm in would make any difference in determining whether or not I'm waxing or waning on the issue of being more ME. (Though I do say you should cut your hair on a New Moon if you want it to grow fast, but that has nothing to do with our current topic of discussion. Or does it?) But I do recall the phases, not of womanhood, but of susyhood. I wasted a lot of time worrying too much about what others thought of me and we'll call that peri-susyness. Then I moved away from all I'd known and ending up figuring out what was really at my core, my essence and we'll label it grand susyness. If there is a postsusyness to come, and I have anything to say about it--and I know I do--I want to make sure to squeeze every bit of snot and tears out of it, ride it hard, wring it into submission, and hang it out to dry up and die.
You've been forewarned, my dear confidantes: This road may get dusty at times and I may lose my way, but the path is still there and somewhere in the weeds of woman-ness we'll find our destination. So saddle up, cowgirls and boys!
And if you don't have a saddle, I may have some individually-wrapped, winged, overnight models for sale very soon.
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