Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: adulting, family, health, menopause, menstruation, mental health, Middle-Age, relationships, women's health
Women of a certain age joke about menopause all the time.
“If I had a dollar for every time I get distracted, I wish I had some ice cream.”
“I don’t have hot flashes, I have short, tropical vacations.”
“Menopause – it’s a thin line between love and homicide.”
This happens…that stops happening … and thank God THAT doesn’t happen anymore (you can Google the symptoms – it’s not secret knowledge, despite what our mothers’ generation thought). I always thought that knowing those things made me have a pretty good handle on it, mentally. My kids are grown and I’m definitely ready to kiss the whole period/PMS thing goodbye.
So, when mine stopped happening, I diligently started counting down the months until the magical 12-month mark with no period – then it would become official. I’d be in a new stage of life that didn’t involve trips to the store because I ran out of tampons and packing extra underwear to take to work and on vacations (just in case). I was looking forward to emotional stability, sleeping through the night and becoming the wise old matriarch I am destined to be. I was even getting used to this new, fatty swim ring permanently hanging over the top of my pants, no matter how many sit-ups I did.
And then, at 11 months and 3 weeks – I got it again.
Are you freaking kidding me?
I was at the finish line, looking official Middle Age in the face and she laughed, said “Bitch, please,” and drew another 365-day line in the sand.
A couple of nights later (and one emergency trip to CVS for supplies), I dreamed I was pregnant (I’m not). And in that dream, I was very upset. I cried and wept, feeling angry and betrayed and trapped. I remember wailing “I don’t want to be 70 when my kid graduates college!”
It took me a few days to process what was happening with that dream. I finally realized that even though my body decided to have a last laugh or last gasp, whichever way you want to look at it, in my mind I had already moved on. I’ve raised my two wonderful daughters and experienced the joys and agony of watching them go through the ages and stages. I am ready to start a new phase of life.
That’s something the OBGYN, memes, Facebook and even your friends probably don’t talk about – the mental and emotional adjustment of menopause. I’m sure most women feel it is liberating, devastating, or some combination of the two, but we just don’t talk about that part of it.
Memes are way funnier, let’s be honest.
But eventually you either embrace or resent this new phase of life, this new you. You come to terms with it, or if you don’t, society will most likely not be very kind to you. There will be a lot of pursed lips and head shaking when you show up in your Daisy Dukes, 4-inch wedges and bikini top at age 60, no matter how in shape you think you are.
On the surface I was annoyed, but deep down getting my period again shook the fragile estrogen bridge (made of HRT pills and a secret stash of Midol) I was clinging to, as I tried to cross the chasm between youth and middle-age.
When I look behind, I see a thinner version of me chasing my children, arranging play dates, juggling work and parenting and a busy social life, and generally burning the candle at both ends without a thought. I see Hubby working hard and picking up the slack, leaping into the chaos when he got the opportunity, and juggling the same crazy things. It’s a busy, almost frantic life back there, and I get tired just watching them. When I look forward, I can see the other side, at least what we’re told is there: great, worry-free sex, wisdom, acceptance of certain physical flaws and changes that actually celebrate the life of a woman. I see Hubby and I standing together watching our girls make their own way in the world, their own families, their own memories. I see us figuring out this new existence together and connecting in a new way. I see us being the team we were in the beginning.
And I realize that I’m looking forward to getting over this bridge, despite the bottles of Aleve, the moments of missing what used to be, and the memory losses that are already starting to peek around the corner at me.
So, another 365-day countdown begins. Now, if only I could remember where I put my calendar….
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, breaking up, breakups, couch potato, couples, dating, family, gym, health, humor, love, Marriage, Middle-Age, narcissist, reachers, relationships, settlers, sex, subourbonmom, Twilight
Daughter #1 recently informed our family that on the TV show How I Met Your Mother, they talked about how in every relationship there’s a Reacher and a Settler.
Reachers are in a relationship with someone who is out of their league. Settlers are with someone they believe may be inferior to them, either intellectually or physically – think Christie Brinkley and Billy Joel, or for those of you under the age of 40, Jason Sudeikis and Olivia Wilde.
Ok, ok, if you want to be intellectual about it, it could be anyone of normal intelligence who has married a genius of any kind.
So I started wondering: If this is true, what relationships would work better and longer?
Reacher + Settler: A lawyer once said, “You know 10’s don’t date 2’s, right?” Well, in my opinion, if they do it’s most likely not going to work, for two reasons:
1. There rarely are 10’s. Some people may think they’re a 10, but chances are they’re not. I’m not just talking about looks here – you can be a 10 in the personality department, or a be a 2 (a total D-bag). Either way, it probably won’t last.
2. These relationships are doomed from the start, unless the Settler (the 10) is a narcissist and the Reacher (the 2) has absolutely no self-esteem whatsoever, and they stay that way. In this type of relationship, Reachers will let their well-being be dictated by their desire to be needed by the Settler.
Think of Bella, the character in the Twilight movies. She is the Reacher (a young girl who is completely attracted to the all-powerful vampire), and Edward, the vampire, is the Settler. (Yes, I know what happened in the books at the end – more on that later). If their relationship had stayed the same, she would eventually have become just a blood supply to him.
Settler + Settler: This would appear on the surface to work, except that the relationship will become toxic. Eventually, both Settlers’ feelings of superiority allow them to convince themselves they are right, or at least that the other is wrong. In a relationship between two Settlers, each thinks the other must be a Reacher, and therefore must be inferior/wrong. “Asshole”, “arrogant” and “egotistical” are a couple of favorite words for two Settlers to sling about when they fight. Try to imagine what would happen if Kanye West or Taylor Swift got together, or even better, Hillary and The Donald.
Toxic.
Reacher + Reacher: This is the best combination. Two Reachers will be convinced they don’t deserve the other person, and will treat each other well. Back to Bella and Edward – by the end of the series, both become Reachers. Once Bella is made into a vampire, their unique vampire abilities put them on equal footing. Plus, both are so screwed up emotionally (she’s horrifically repressed, and he’s got some bizarre emotional need to be with a girl one tenth his age) they will never consider themselves Settlers. That said, most of the marriages I know that have lasted a long time have done so because both people are self-aware enough to know they are flawed, and that not many people in the world could put up with their shit the way their spouse has for the last decade or two.
But what if the dynamic changes? What if one of the two Reachers turns into a Settler? It happens. Think of the Couch Potato-turned-Gym Rat. The Couch Potato, who is in a relationship with another Couch Potato, should be happy (according to my theory) – until the Couch Potato decides she no longer wants to be a Couch Potato (because she watched the Twilight series too many times), and begins working out in the gym. Soon she’s rockin’ the six pack and has a whole new set of Gym Rat friends. She starts to look down on her Couch Potato, and becomes in her mind, a Settler. So, we are back to the first scenario: Reacher + Settler.
Does this mean people aren’t allowed to change and grow in their relationship? Of course not. It does, however, mean that both people have to communicate, and never stop growing and trying new things. Children try new things every day and grow exponentially. It’s one of the reasons they are so interesting to watch. Adults have a harder time trying new things, out of fear of looking ridiculous of being uncomfortable. But not trying anything new means not growing.
Trying something new doesn’t have to mean hiking the Appalachian Trail or learning to pole dance at age 50; it can be something as simple as taking an online class about underwater basket weaving, writing a blog, or starting a business from your home. When one person in the relationship stops growing and trying new things, they automatically become a Reacher. If both people stop trying new things, they become…Al Bundy.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Travel | Tags: cat, driving, family, Food, Holidays, late, Middle-Age, mouse, mousetrap, road trip, Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is a time for families to get together, eat too much, drink too much and share WAY too many opinions.
Many folks (usually what I like to call “the Middles”, aka the sandwich generation) try to juggle seeing several crooked branches of the family tree during the holidays without offending anyone. To accomplish this, we end up driving all over creation with our kids texting in the backseat, picking up our assigned foods at the grocery store on the way or juggling a pan of some sort of casserole on ourr knees.
And don’t forget to grab that extra bottle of wine because, frankly, Uncle Jack is going to start in on (fill in a political topic here), and one of the cousins already declared “this time I’m not gonna just sit back there and let him say that shit just ’cause he’s a thousand years old. It ain’t right.”
It’s what we do.
It’s also why we’re often late (although sometimes that’s by design).
But I will never be able to top my brother’s excuse for why they were late one year. My brother’s known for being late; in fact we used to plan for it. We would tell him to get there at least an hour before we needed him. One year, he and his family were pushing two hours late for Thanksgiving dinner, and I finally called him on his cell phone to find out where the Hell he was.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
(What follows is the best excuse ever):
We were getting ready and heard the cat meowing like crazy. So I followed the sounds into the garage, and there was Jackson (their large calico cat) with a sticky mousetrap stuck to his face…and the mouse still on it!
Jackson had seen the mouse wriggling in the trap and tried to bite it. The cat got his cheek fur stuck on the trap glue, and was running around howling, with a trap and a mouse about a half-inch from his eyeball.
We caught Jackson and tried to pull the trap off – not a good idea.
Then we tried hot water – in 30 seconds we had an extremely pissed off, wet cat and lots of scratches.
In desperation, we tried cutting the mouse free from the trap, but Jackson was struggling so hard we cut the mouse’s tail off. Blood was spurting everywhere, and the mouse was still stuck.
Finally, cold water did the trick. We got the trap of and put the mouse out of his misery.
“So,” he said, “we’re going to be a little late.”
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, amazon, bourbon, burial, buried, casket, coffin, costco, cryogenics, death, death star, family, funerals, humor, monty python, parents, resomation, ryan lochte, Science, shopping, subourbonmom, urn, walmart
I recently received a text from my friend Kristin late one night that just said Costco sells caskets and urns. Naturally, I had to go look it up, and sure enough they do.
So does Walmart…and Amazon.
Did I miss something? When did the big box stores get involved in the big box business? (Apparently, this business is actually referred to as “Death Care,” the death-sensitive phrase I learned while Googling.) In addition to the assortment of caskets and urns available, Costco also posted a must-read FAQ that informed me about all kinds of death-care rules I knew nothing about. For example, not all states will let you order a casket from somewhere other than a funeral home. Of those that do, you are required to be present when it’s delivered.
Of course, I toyed with the idea of ordering one the next time Hubby makes me furious and just leaving it on the front porch with Universal Casket Company (Costco’s supplier) emblazoned on the box as a hint/threat. But now that we live in the country, only the coyotes and screech owls would see it, so I’ll just have to go back to regular yelling.
I couldn’t believe how expensive these caskets were, and mind you, these were from Costco and Walmart, so I’m sure they had a tiny markup compared to the markup funeral homes add. So, in search of other options, I Googled alternative ways to be buried.
Wow.
There are more ways to be buried than there are ways to have a baby – and that’s after watching every episode of A Baby Story. Actually, many burial methods are eerily similar to methods of having a baby – standing up; in water; natural (read “green”); and, cut open and filled with chemicals. I guess you really do come full circle, like they say.
I have a weird fear of being cremated. I can’t rationalize it, but the idea of it freaks me out. I much prefer Monty Python’s “Nibble, Nibble, Nibble to Crackle, Crackle, Crackle.”
I’ve also always assumed I would be buried in a plot of land overlooking something meaningful and gorgeous, like Robert Redford’s character in Out of Africa. Since we are running out of planet space and it’s uber-expensive, I started looking for alternative burial options. A few stuck with me, if only because they fell into the OH HELL NO I’M NOT DOING THAT category.
Resomation – in which the remains are dissolved in an alkaline solution, leaving a white powder not unlike ashes from cremation. Or a giant pile of coke.
Freeze Drying – I believe this method is still in development, but the process is similar to resomation, except they use liquid nitrogen. After being exposed to the nitrogen, the remains become super brittle and are shaken into a powder. I imagine this to be much like the old rock tumblers we used to use to polish rocks. Afterward, fillings and other non-biodegradable parts are sifted out…in keeping with the rock analogy, kind of like panning for gold. No thanks.
Cryogenics – in which the body is frozen until scientists can figure out how to transcend death in the future and bring you back to life. Jurassic Park ring a bell anyone? That went well. What if you are respected now but turn out to be the biggest douche bag in the future (think Walt Disney)? Or worse, what if Ryan Lochte opts for cryogenics and he’s our representative from the 21st century?
My personal favorite is becoming part of an artificial reef. These reefs are being created off-shore using a mixture of cremation remains and whatever else they make artificial reefs with. These eco-friendly reefs are part of the green death care movement, and are increasing fish habitats and scuba diving opportunities, all while resembling the lost city of Atlantis. I like the idea of building something good for the environment out of peoples’ remains. But why stop there? Why not just start making an entire new planet – WAIT!!!! We could call it the Death Star!!
Too far?
But seriously, for a subject that is so personal and impactful to so many people, both the living and the dead, I find it offensive that we can now buy burial items online the same way we can buy clothes or get a pizza delivery. I understand why people will shop at the box stores for these things – the same reason we buy our food and eBooks there. Prices for caskets and funeral services are ridiculous. In my opinion, there should be limits placed on the costs of caskets, urns, shrouds, and burial options. Alternative burial options should be allowed to be explored and utilized. But the big box stores should stay out of an industry that requires sensitivity and dignity. There are entire industries welcoming the box stores with open arms, but the death care industry shouldn’t be one of them – no bones about it.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Posts | Tags: adulthood, alcohol, alcoholic, Beer, bourbon, drinks, family, health, humor, liver, love, Marriage, Middle-Age, rum, sex, south, southern, subourbonmom, tequila, wine
There are a lot of body organs that can be equated to types of people. My heart is the parent of teenagers – steadily working to keep things moving forward and occasionally feeling like it can’t keep up, and skipping a beat when exciting things are happening. My brain is definitely the five-year-old of the body family, with the ability to be shockingly accurate and annoyingly obtuse at the same.
But the most interesting body organ is my liver – she’s a slut – or at least she used to be. She would take in anything, but like a lot of older sluts, doing so now comes with a lot of consequences.
I think the history of alcoholic drinks my liver has filtered also reflects the relationships (and I use the word “relationships” loosely) I’ve had.
In the beginning, there were the sweet early-years boyfriends, who felt good at the time, compared to, well, nothing much else yet… but who left me in the end with monster headaches and an upset stomach. For my liver these years were marked by avid consumption of your staple redneck beers, occasionally spiked with an unusual combination of vodka and whatever else was available.
Of course, everyone has a tequila story. Let’s just say I still can’t even think about it to this day without gagging…and that was just that one guy…(Daughters 1 & 2, be smarter and better than your mom…please!)
Like many people, my liver and heart were indiscriminate for a while, trying to find a basis for comparison. You have to know the bad before you can appreciate the good, right?
Eventually there was the first reciprocated love – and the introduction to wine. Sweet white wine was delightful and full of promise. Unfortunately, I still hadn’t tried a lot of other drinks or relationships, and needed to branch out to truly understand what my liver, er, heart thought was best. European beers with their fancy labels had always been a draw, but in the end they made me sick at heart and in the toilet.
And then my liver and I discovered rum – a drink traditionally from the islands, with a bite that will cut through too much sweet and not leave me with the dreaded wine headache/hangover. That lasted for years and years, and is still a favorite.
But as I’ve gotten older, my liver is thankfully starting to show her age, getting more and more picky about what spills inside, creating all kinds of side effects when I make a bad choice. Beer leaves me feeling tired and fat, wine gives me hot flashes, and vodka just eliminates any mental filters I have – none of these are desirable side effects in my body or in a relationship.
I have now switched from rum to bourbon, and before anyone freaks out and thinks something is wrong between me and Hubby, we are fine. But after 27 years, relationships change. I no longer need the flash fire and overt sweetness of rum drinks. Instead, I prefer the steady burn of bourbon, warming me from the inside. It keeps the hot flashes away, and I rarely have a hangover. Same with Hubby – he’s my Blanton’s, my Basil Hayden, my Jefferson Ocean.
So there you have it, folks. Whether you are in the Boones Farm stage (or, God forbid, never got out of it), trying your first sweet, white wine or still throwing back those nasty shots of tequila, think about what it might be telling. My liver was a slut – but thankfully she held up long enough so that I can now ingest quality.
Subourbon Mom 