You always hear women complaining that they're becoming their mothers. Well, I'm becoming my father. I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror this morning as I was creaking my way to the can and there I was, hunched and shuffling around like an old man. It takes about 10 minutes for my body to respond to being awake, straighten itself and get blood pumping to aching muscles and stiff bones. Five years ago it took five minutes and I imagine in five more years it'll take 15 or 20. Time is no friend to the aging.
Thought for the day: What is it about sleeping as you age that makes you feel like you've just run a marathon?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Curses!
"Are you still menstruating," asked the nurse during my last visit to the doctor. A year ago I would've been insulted by this very transparent allusion to my aging body. Growing up I always looked young for my age, but in an ironic reversal of misfortune, as I get older that gap between perceived age and actual age is narrowing with each advancing year. Really now, shouldn't it be the other way around? *sigh*
"Yes I'm still menstruating," I bit back. As my behavior analyst girlfriend would say, I was showing 'signs of damage.' I'm frustrated that I'm still having to put up with my uninvited 'monthly visitor' AND dealing with the symptoms of perimenopause. It's just not fair. None of it. I'm starting to look my age; my period is nastier than ever (cramps, PMS, bloating--the whole shebang); I wake up to soggy sheets virtually every morning; I'm harvesting hair in unwanted places; and yes, Nurse Ratchett, I'm still menstruating, goddamit (oh, did I already mention that?) See? Signs of damage.
The way I see it is this: you either curse the curse or curse the sweats, but not both at the same time.
C'mon, give us girls a break!
"Yes I'm still menstruating," I bit back. As my behavior analyst girlfriend would say, I was showing 'signs of damage.' I'm frustrated that I'm still having to put up with my uninvited 'monthly visitor' AND dealing with the symptoms of perimenopause. It's just not fair. None of it. I'm starting to look my age; my period is nastier than ever (cramps, PMS, bloating--the whole shebang); I wake up to soggy sheets virtually every morning; I'm harvesting hair in unwanted places; and yes, Nurse Ratchett, I'm still menstruating, goddamit (oh, did I already mention that?) See? Signs of damage.
The way I see it is this: you either curse the curse or curse the sweats, but not both at the same time.
C'mon, give us girls a break!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Helga Rising
Contrary to being able to cough up a shower squirrel every time I bathe, I'm really not a hairy person. I can go weeks without putting a razor to my legs and only sport a handful of silky nubs. If I were a blonde I'd probably never have to shave the gams at all, but being a bonafide brunette those little buggers--sparse as they may be--are black as night. That's why this new phase of aging is all the more perplexing: The hair I'm losing on my head is popping back up in places that prior to 40 were smooth as a baby's tush.
Enter Helga.
My girlfriend first spotted her one evening as we were getting ready to go to a ritzy black-tie event. As I stood in the bathroom applying my third coat of lip gloss, teetering on four-inch stilettos in a crush of red velvet, she gave me the customary once-over to make sure that my tags were tucked and my mascara hadn't migrated to my cheekbones. Her eyes suddenly grew as big as dinner plates and then narrowed into indiscernible slits as she enveloped me in a rush of heightened concern.
"Oh my god!!" she cried, grabbing the loop from the bathroom shelf (she has a slight obsession with analyzing minute body parts like skin, nail shavings, etc--anything that can be magnified) and affixing it to my chin.
"It's magnificent!"
Knowing full well that when she says something's 'magnificent' while looking through the loop it usually means it's some sort of biological anomaly bordering on grotesque, I panicked.
"What is it?! Do I have a big fat zit? Dear Lord tell me it's not about to erupt right before we walk down the red carpet!"
"No, it's not a zit. It's more of a..." her voice trailed off as she pressed the loop harder into my skin. "I'm not sure how to describe it. I've never seen anything quite like it."
"Jesus," I snorted. "Let me see."
I pushed my way to the makeup mirror which, unfortunately, magnifies everything by 10 and turned on the light, just to make sure the discovery was as horrific as possible.
It was a massive whisker. Not just your average run-of-the-mill granny chin hair, but a mean-spirited, menacing follicle with a shaft the size of a coax cable. And to make matters worse, it was gray! I'd already begun to pluck those coarse bastards from my nether regions, but this really took the cake, ate it and threw it up on my face.
"Get rid of it!" I screamed hysterically, clearing the bathroom shelf with one broad sweep of my arm in a desperate attempt to find the tweezers.
"Easy, easy now," my sweet-tempered gal crooned. "I'll take care of Helga." A fitting name considering the whisker's temperament and girth.
She grabbed what looked like needle-nose pliers, put on her reading glasses and gave it a quick yank. But Helga didn't budge.
"Stubborn little shit, isn't she?" she teased.
"This is no time for levity! Please, please get rid of it," I begged.
"Okay, hold on. This one's going to do the trick," she said, bracing herself with her foot on the toilet seat. "One, two... three!"
I felt a sting as she deftly plucked Helga from her post.
"Got her!"
She laid Helga carefully on a sheet of toilet paper and placed the loop over her. "Let's take a look, shall we?"
"Do we have to?" I whined.
"Yes! It's fascinating. Don't you want to know what your body produces?"
"Not really. No." But I couldn't resist taking a gander at this gargantuan hair that sprouted from my chin. Helga was truly impressive, in a Guinness Book sort of way, with a root system that rivaled the majestic Sequoias.
"Are you sure you got all of her?" I asked, hoping that what I'd heard was true. That if you get a hair by the roots it's gone for good.
"Pretty sure I did. Guess we'll have to wait and see."
And wait we did.
Enter Helga.
My girlfriend first spotted her one evening as we were getting ready to go to a ritzy black-tie event. As I stood in the bathroom applying my third coat of lip gloss, teetering on four-inch stilettos in a crush of red velvet, she gave me the customary once-over to make sure that my tags were tucked and my mascara hadn't migrated to my cheekbones. Her eyes suddenly grew as big as dinner plates and then narrowed into indiscernible slits as she enveloped me in a rush of heightened concern.
"Oh my god!!" she cried, grabbing the loop from the bathroom shelf (she has a slight obsession with analyzing minute body parts like skin, nail shavings, etc--anything that can be magnified) and affixing it to my chin.
"It's magnificent!"
Knowing full well that when she says something's 'magnificent' while looking through the loop it usually means it's some sort of biological anomaly bordering on grotesque, I panicked.
"What is it?! Do I have a big fat zit? Dear Lord tell me it's not about to erupt right before we walk down the red carpet!"
"No, it's not a zit. It's more of a..." her voice trailed off as she pressed the loop harder into my skin. "I'm not sure how to describe it. I've never seen anything quite like it."
"Jesus," I snorted. "Let me see."
I pushed my way to the makeup mirror which, unfortunately, magnifies everything by 10 and turned on the light, just to make sure the discovery was as horrific as possible.
It was a massive whisker. Not just your average run-of-the-mill granny chin hair, but a mean-spirited, menacing follicle with a shaft the size of a coax cable. And to make matters worse, it was gray! I'd already begun to pluck those coarse bastards from my nether regions, but this really took the cake, ate it and threw it up on my face.
"Get rid of it!" I screamed hysterically, clearing the bathroom shelf with one broad sweep of my arm in a desperate attempt to find the tweezers.
"Easy, easy now," my sweet-tempered gal crooned. "I'll take care of Helga." A fitting name considering the whisker's temperament and girth.
She grabbed what looked like needle-nose pliers, put on her reading glasses and gave it a quick yank. But Helga didn't budge.
"Stubborn little shit, isn't she?" she teased.
"This is no time for levity! Please, please get rid of it," I begged.
"Okay, hold on. This one's going to do the trick," she said, bracing herself with her foot on the toilet seat. "One, two... three!"
I felt a sting as she deftly plucked Helga from her post.
"Got her!"
She laid Helga carefully on a sheet of toilet paper and placed the loop over her. "Let's take a look, shall we?"
"Do we have to?" I whined.
"Yes! It's fascinating. Don't you want to know what your body produces?"
"Not really. No." But I couldn't resist taking a gander at this gargantuan hair that sprouted from my chin. Helga was truly impressive, in a Guinness Book sort of way, with a root system that rivaled the majestic Sequoias.
"Are you sure you got all of her?" I asked, hoping that what I'd heard was true. That if you get a hair by the roots it's gone for good.
"Pretty sure I did. Guess we'll have to wait and see."
And wait we did.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
I want to be the "Julie" of the menopause generation
We watched "Julie & Julia" the other day, you know, the film starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams about a gal who makes her fame and fortune blogging about French cooking a la Julia Childs?
I'm wondering if I can make MY fame and fortune blogging about menopause and women growing older? For my few followers out there... do you think folks will want to read about shower squirrels and Helgas rising, moisture-wicking sheets and varicose veins?
Just askin'.
I'm wondering if I can make MY fame and fortune blogging about menopause and women growing older? For my few followers out there... do you think folks will want to read about shower squirrels and Helgas rising, moisture-wicking sheets and varicose veins?
Just askin'.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Oh the noise!
Just wanted to alert you to some new venomous drivel unleashed by hate monger and conservative radio host Michael Savage. It's addressed in my other blog, writermd-noiseinmyhead.blogspot.com, in order to protect the hormonal sanctity of the meanopause blog.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sweat Fest
Night sweats. They're pretty much unavoidable when you're going through--or even rounding the corner of -- The Change. Waking up in the wee hours of the morning, hair plastered to the back of your neck, sheets stuck to skin sticky with salt. If you're coupled, you make sure to move to the far side of the bed so your partner can't cuddle up to your sweaty self. It's just too embarrassing. Sometimes it's unavoidable, however, and a little shuffling beneath the sheets ensues, resulting in those two little words every woman longs to hear: "Ewww! Gross!"
Menopause seems to single-handedly redefine pillow talk. "Wow baby, you're so hot!" at 3 am now means something entirely different than it did during the courtship phase. And don't even get me started on the new definition of 'wet.'
The other night I was awoken by my significant other quietly rummaging (that may be an oxymoron) through drawers in search of a dry t-shirt.
"Shit," she whispered to the night, after stepping on a half-chewed strip of rawhide abandoned by one of the dogs.
"Whas goin' on?" I mumbled, still half asleep.
"Oh, I'm looking for a fresh shirt. Mine is soaked."
Two years ago that might have begged the question, "Soaked with what?" But now, with both of us knocking on the door of the big M, it's a given that perspiration is the pernicious culprit.
"Oh, ok... sorry baby," I uttered and rolled back over into my own expanding circle of sweat.
And so it goes...
Menopause seems to single-handedly redefine pillow talk. "Wow baby, you're so hot!" at 3 am now means something entirely different than it did during the courtship phase. And don't even get me started on the new definition of 'wet.'
The other night I was awoken by my significant other quietly rummaging (that may be an oxymoron) through drawers in search of a dry t-shirt.
"Shit," she whispered to the night, after stepping on a half-chewed strip of rawhide abandoned by one of the dogs.
"Whas goin' on?" I mumbled, still half asleep.
"Oh, I'm looking for a fresh shirt. Mine is soaked."
Two years ago that might have begged the question, "Soaked with what?" But now, with both of us knocking on the door of the big M, it's a given that perspiration is the pernicious culprit.
"Oh, ok... sorry baby," I uttered and rolled back over into my own expanding circle of sweat.
And so it goes...
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Emergence of the Big 'M'
I woke up drenched in sweat... again. The wet, sticky, hair plastered to the back of my neck kind of sweat. I thought about changing out my top... again, but I was so tired, I just did the chicken-flap with my nightie, waving it around under the covers in a feeble attempt to get some air into the damp recesses of my body. I know. It sounds gross. And it is. Welcome to menopause.
I'm 47 and I think I'm entering what's called peri-menopause. I'm right on the cusp, just beginning the spiral into soaked sheets, hot flashes, rabid mood swings and sex drive disturbances. My body has somehow started to build fat in areas I didn't even know could BE fat. I'm not on any menopausal drugs--no HRTs yet (hormone replacement therapy), no regular anxiety meds (although popping a Xanax every now and then sure sounds good as of late)--and while I'm sure that's all to come as I continue this unasked for journey, I thought maybe blogging about it from start to finish, that is if it ever ends, might be therapeutic.
This blog is dedicated to menopause, a kind of homage to the emergence of the crone (more on this later). My partner is going through it too and we're planning to kind of of tag-team our experience, although she's a little further into it than I am. Imagine, two women sharing the joy! It'll either be hysterical or horrific--or both--but it'll probably never be boring.
I'm 47 and I think I'm entering what's called peri-menopause. I'm right on the cusp, just beginning the spiral into soaked sheets, hot flashes, rabid mood swings and sex drive disturbances. My body has somehow started to build fat in areas I didn't even know could BE fat. I'm not on any menopausal drugs--no HRTs yet (hormone replacement therapy), no regular anxiety meds (although popping a Xanax every now and then sure sounds good as of late)--and while I'm sure that's all to come as I continue this unasked for journey, I thought maybe blogging about it from start to finish, that is if it ever ends, might be therapeutic.
This blog is dedicated to menopause, a kind of homage to the emergence of the crone (more on this later). My partner is going through it too and we're planning to kind of of tag-team our experience, although she's a little further into it than I am. Imagine, two women sharing the joy! It'll either be hysterical or horrific--or both--but it'll probably never be boring.
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