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….
I’m in the middle of a break-up. But, like a lot of my break-ups in the past, the guy has no idea we’re calling it quits. But I’m not telling him until I get my stuff back.
“I don’t deserve you.”
Why am I breaking up with him? First, he’s always late.
Always.
I get the late thing once in a while, but every…single…time? The last time we were supposed to see each other, I waited for over an hour. I finally left.
“I really don’t need the two of you in my life – you and your drama.”
Second, he’s pretty bad at communicating. Even the people he hangs out with have a hard time letting people know what’s going on. That’s fine for them, but when it starts affecting my relationship, that’s a problem. Before I left the last time, one of his “friends” told me I wasn’t a good listener.
“You need to be a better one before you can be a two.”
Third, we don’t talk anymore. When we’re together, he spends most of his time staring at his computer. I try to tell him how I feel, but he never seems to have time to listen to it all.
Don’t worry – I’m not breaking up my 25-year marriage. I’m breaking up with my doctor.
I waited too long for too many appointments in a room filled with a blaring TV and geriatrics talking at full volume. The last time I was there, after I’d waited 45 minutes, the receptionist informed me I’d been called ten minutes before, implying I wasn’t listening. She also said there was an emergency, and they had know idea how long I would have to wait. Um, yeah…I left.
“You only love me for my body.”
As for looking at the computer most of the time, that’s fine. Even waiters have iPads now. I’ve got WebMD and I only go into the office when I need a physical or a real diagnosis. What bothers me is that when I get my blood tested for my physical after the meeting with the doctor, I don’t talk to the doctor afterward. I am sent a piece of paper with my blood test results. There are columns with the numerical results of each test, which are meaningless to me because I’M NOT A ADOCTOR; there is also column that has recommendations based on the numbers, but unless I make (and pay for) another appointment, I don’t get to talk in person with my doctor about the results or the recommendations. How do I know he’s looking at everything as a whole, or that he looked at it at all?
So we’re breaking up. My time is just as important as his, and I am more than just an amazing body. I need someone who can meet my physical and emotional needs. If he can’t understand that, well, he’ll never get it.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
Filed under: Exercise, Misc. Humor, Sports | Tags: clothing, Exercise, fashion, fear, health, smell, sports, underwear, working out
Warning – this one is completely tasteless….read at your own risk…
I recently had a lengthy debate with some girlfriends over whether women should “vent the furnace” or wear underwear at night.
For those who said yes, that sleeping without underwear was their preference, the most common reason was because a long time ago, their mothers had said it was healthier. My mom never said that, so I’m perfectly happy to be wrapped up like a Puritan every night. Maybe the fact that I’m not going “nonederwear” explains why I have so many hot flashes at night – all that heat must have to go somewhere.
But apparently the idea that it is healthier to go without underwear is the same for whether or not people wear underwear with their exercise shorts that have the lining in them. It seems that I am the only person in the universe that doesn’t go spongebob nudiepants at the gym. But I have reasons:
- I’ve seen the sweat puddles in the exercise machine seats, and I don’t care how many wipes you use, once you see it you can’t get it out of your mind. I don’t want my stuff lathered up in someone else’s body butter.
- Men should double bag because no one wants to see the mouse get out of the house when it’s time to stretch. Women should do the same thing, because, let’s face it, sometimes a little landscaping might be amiss, and nobody wants that distraction either.
- And finally, I have a (completely unfounded) fear of Cooter Stank. I’m not the only one – have you seen the multitudes of products out there to prevent it? And, weirdly, I’m not worried about it the rest of the time – I only freak out about it at the gym. Even that doesn’t make sense because, let’s face it, morning workouts in the gym can be overwhelming to the olfactory senses. Every day in the gym, no matter which gym you go to, it seems like there’s Man Who Ate Garlic Last Night, The Coffee Breather, and Please Use Deodorant As A Courtesy To The Rest Of Us Guy.
So, here’s an actual conversation in our house about wearing underwear under your shorts at the gym:
D1: “Mom, you wear underwear to the gym?”
Me: “Yep.”
D1: “Why?”
Me: “I’m afraid it will smell.”
D1: “What will?”
Me: “The Cooter.”
D1: “Wait…what? Who calls it that?”
Me: “Me.”
D1: “I know somebody who has an ‘I Love Cooter’ magnet on their fridge.”
Me: “You know that’s a political magnet, right?”
D1: (Eye Roll) “Yes, I know, Mom. I get the joke. But seriously, you know everybody in the gym smells bad, right?”
Me: “I know, I just can’t help it.”
D1: “You’re weird.”
Me: (In my head – “You’re half me…” – secret smile)
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: dermatologist, health, silence of the lambs, skin, sunburn
Today I went to the dermatologist for my annual visit, which always makes me temporarily look like I fell headfirst into a vat of liquid herpes virus. Blisters are on my forehead, nose and cheeks from where she froze a bunch of questionable freckles and moles. I also requested to have a skin tag removed so I don’t have a weird, skinny pinky growing out of my neck – but when she froze it off, it blistered, and now it looks like a I have an abnormally small third nipple growing there instead.
One of the things that is supposed to separate us from the animals is our ability to postpone gratification. We can wait to eat that chocolate bar in the bin at the grocery store checkout when we know there’s a huge anniversary steak waiting for us at Ruth’s Chris. The flip side of that is our ability to understand that not all consequences are immediate. The fact that you hung your little brother in the closet all afternoon by the back of his shirt may not have incurred parental wrath until Dad got home. Then the beatings would begin.
Sun damage is the same. When I forgot to flip over as I basted my teenage self, there wasn’t any immediate regret, just the tingle of a mild sunburn or the occasional blister. Aaaah, but the punishment has begun. These days, I can see lines that are soon going to make me look like a dried-up prune, or one of those muppets in the movie Labyrinth.
The movie Something About Mary also comes to mind – and not the Cameron Diaz character. 
I’m pretty sure that Botox won’t help either – making my face immobile might take away the lines, but it will also make it impossible for anyone to know if I’m being sarcastic or just super bitchy.
My skin may look 20 years older than I am, but there’s always a silver lining: I don’t have to worry about Hannibal Lecter or Buffalo Bill anymore (Silence of the Lambs). I think my skin has finally started turning into leather while I’m still wearing it. It’s not quite saddle or boot material, and no amount of lotion is going to make it into a good skin suit (don’t ever Google that – trust me).
So that’s my Public Service Announcement – wear your sunblock and your 100 SPF t-shirts, and please, please, please go see your dermatologist regularly. Not being afraid of Hannibal Lecter and Buffalo Bill is a silver lining, but don’t put yourself in a position where you have to look for one.
Filed under: Exercise, Misc. Humor, Sports | Tags: adulthood, gym, health, mens health, orange theory, Running, trainer, women's health
There are several health care jobs I know I could never do, mostly because they’re just gross or dealing with negativity – dentists (scared patients), ear-nose-throat docs (green noses make me dry-heave), and gynecologists (just…eeewww), to name a few. But one of the most underrated jobs has got to be exercise/gym trainer.
Before you roll your eyes and say, oh please, they make their own hours and get to play in a gym for their job, let me point out a few things:
Gym trainers have to look good every day to sell their product. Slapping on some makeup or pricey cologne and throwing on a cute dress or fancy suit after a blurry night out aren’t going to do it. Trainers have to be perky (almost annoyingly so) and looking fresh every time, like they just stepped out of a fitness magazine or off the beach after a refreshing jog along the waterline – they’re selling a body and motivation. No one wants a fat trainer lazily leaning against a stack of weights telling them how to not be fat and lazy.
Trainers have to exude motivation, even when they’ve been up half the night with a vomiting kid, or are regretting eating that entire Chipotle bowl. An object at rest tends to stay at rest, and lots of clients feel like they have already produced a herculean effort just to get to the gym in the first place. For some, that includes just trying to get their sports bra on. They’re not happy about getting out of bed at the crack of dawn or leaving the office after a crappy day of work and heading to a place that makes them alternately miserable and euphoric. But trainers have to somehow make these people exercise until they sweat, hearts pounding and bodies straining with every lift, curl or push – and they must do it in a way that doesn’t make their clients hate them. At Orange Theory, the gym I go to, Hannah and John have mastered this – God bless ’em!
Trainers who teach the early morning classes are a special breed. Not only do they have to look good and be cheerful around a bunch of sleepy, grumpy people who have desperately fueled up on coffee in a pitiful attempt to make it through the class, trainers endure hours of garlic sweat (don’t be that guy), morning breath and general B.O. (because why bother if you’re just going to shower before going to work?).
So be kind to your trainer. Say thank you after class, even though yes, you are paying for it. Appreciate that they got out of bed even earlier than you so you could get to your 5am class, and they never said a word to you the day you came in smelling like PF Changs.
Subourbon Mom 