A recent doctor visit confirmed what I already knew deep in my hot flashing little heart. I’m headed for that magic moment I’ve been looking forward to for a very long time–Menopause!  Unlike some, I’m happy to send my ‘eggs’ to hell in a hand-basket, or any other conveyance that happens to be handy, so they can fry.  I don’t have one of those cute little biological clocks that go tick-tock. No, I’ve already had my one moment in mommy-ville and while it was painful as hell, wonderful, life affirming, great (yeah right!)I’m in no hurry to repeat it, ever.   

So, instead of a clock, I have a time bomb hooked up to hormonal C4, ready to just explode, raining havoc all over some poor unsuspecting twit who cuts me off in the line at the grocery store.  Produce would be used in ways nature never intended, at least never outside the Fresh Veggie Fetish of the Month Club. (Not that I’m a member, but I do hear about these things.) I’d become the darling of the eleven o’clock news and subsequently, of Cell Block 8 of the women’s penitentiary as well, at least until my lawyer put the PMS defense to the test.  And as I can fake innocent and repentant with the best of them, I’d past that test with flying Kleenex.

Unless.. I choose my victim wisely. And I choose what’s behind door number three.  Jokingly posted with a large yellow sign, reading,  Warning! Hormonal woman inside. Proceed with caution!  Oh, ha ha ha, very funny.  No, it’s not, especially, when I’m the one inside.  However, someone else is inside the room with me who isn’t taking the sign seriously, and he should.  He chuckles warmly and pats my clammy arm telling me I’m going through perimenopause. Peri meaning, before.  You mean this isn’t the real thing? The night sweats,(I’ll give them the crabbiness, as I’m that way all the time) muscle cramps, inability to concentrate, the nausea, vomiting, heart palpitations, etc.   WELL! Just take away all my cash and credit cards and put me in the middle of the biggest book sale of the year, in other words, talk about torture!  I just wanted stoppage, none of this weird, freaky business happening.  I didn’t think the pause in menopause actually meant that. I thought it meant stop, and if this is a prelude to the real thing, I shall go insane when the real one starts!

I asked what I could do about it and was told, not much, especially when faced with my other medicines and health problems.  I asked how long it could last, and was told 10 years.  He actually laughed at my open mouthed astonishment. I don’t remember leaving the office, but apparently, I did, since I’m sitting here blogging about it. I did mention confusion, didn’t I? Better to establish that in case I have to build my defense, right? Right! Assuming that he’s still breathing as I write this blog, I think I should get to visit my doctor once a month and kick him right where it hurts just so he’ll get a small taste of how I feel.  I bet he figures something out way faster than 10 years. 

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