Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause

Passing for Five

Like any woman over 50, I won't deny feeling a sense of pride when someone thinks I'm in my late thirties, but it's not that big of an achievement when that person is of the male persuasion and I am revealing a little cleavage. Most men's eyes can't make it up to your face if there's decolletage. I could be wearing a sinus mask and fake pirate's moustache, and they'd never notice.

I prefer to be mistaken for a five-year-old. For one thing, I don't have to work so hard. Trying to be thirty requires not only the proper bra, but suspension of most of my usual beliefs. "You're a 37-year old man looking for a quality woman for a long term commitment by trying to pick me up in the grocery store parking lot? No, there's noting off-putting about that..."

Being five, on the other hand, just requires an attitude adjustment and some pigtails. The pigtails help because every time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or window, I remember to lighten up and find something to giggle about. The attitude adjustment is a little harder, but skipping down the street usually gets the right set of chemicals going in my brain to make me think more like the flexible, easily awestruck, openly curious, and always laughing child I am on the inside.

No amount of Botox or plastic surgery can help you pass for five. That's an inside job.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Freak Out

Is it wrong for a stress management/humor expert to get so stressed out she forgets to laugh?

Thankfully, that hasn't happened to me. Yet. Never say never.

My new book, How'd All These Ping Pong Balls Get in My Bag: The Stressed-Out Woman's Guide to Letting Go With Laughter arrived in boxes at my doorstep on Saturday and now somehow I have to squeeze in letting the world know about it while trying to do the usual stuff like writing humor articles, teaching grammar to undergraduate journalism students who'd rather be outside in the sunshine, and live-trapping the 47 Norwegian rats who have decided they LOVE the birdseed I've been putting out.

Oh, and did I mention that I sprained my butt? That's right! You try wrapping your hind end in an Ace bandage and see if that doesn't just crack you up! The doctor told me to let it rest, but I've discovered that I use my posterior for almost every activity I perform on a regular basis. Sitting, standing, bending, walking the dogs, yanking birdseed away from rodents...all butt-intensive activities. I'm thinking of hanging from my armpits in the doorway, but getting the bungees up there would probably strain something else.

But at least I'm not hot-flashing!

If you want a copy of my book, I'll hobble to the post office to send you one. Really, I don't mind. You can go to: http://www.accidentalcomic.com/books/pingpongballs.php and get yours there. It's the perfect gift for every over-stressed woman (and yes, I realize I'm being redundant). Please don't laugh too hard when you read it, though. You never know what muscle you might pull!

Meanwhile, I better get up off this chair. All this sitting is giving me too much of a workout.

I Wouldn't be Twenty Again

For every women we see lamenting her age in ads for anti-aging creams or hair dye, I think the FCC should require there to be equal time from women who are ecstatic not to have to worry about all the things we did when we were 20, 30, or even 40.

Here's just a short list of things that used to bother me when I was young that don't faze me now that I'm older and if not wiser, at least apathetic:

o    Having missed the back of one ankle while shaving
o    Swimsuit season - I've had the same swimsuit for 7 years and I know I won't look any better in any other suit unless they make one covered with mirrors so all anyone sees is a reflection of the scenery
o    Having anyone refer to me as a "nerd" (in fact, it's a point of pride with me that I'm still capable of pulling off nerd)
o    Being caught at the grocery store without any makeup on
o    Forgetting to cook something for a potluck and showing up with store bought hummus dip (hey, that's what passes for "yummy" in Oregon)
o    Forgetting everyone's name immediately after having been introduced
o    Dog hair in the dip
o    Having a 1965 turquoise stove when according to HGTV I really need stainless steel
o    Wearing last season's fashion. Or knowing what last season's fashions were. In fact, now that the 70s seem to be back with a vengeance, I figure anything I have in my closet goes. Where are those go-go boots, I wonder?
o    My crooked teeth that returned to their original positions after two years of wearing braces
o    Friends I always have to call because they think following me on Twitter is enough
o    Younger men who think I'm attractive from behind and then are visibly disappointed when the come 'round front
o    Older men with the same problem
o    Meeting someone new while carrying a bag of dog poo
o    Investing in my retirement "plan." Since 40% of what I invested originally has hitchhiked to the Bermuda Triangle, I'm just going to put my money in dark chocolate.
o    Peach fuzz above my lip. Hey, I AM a mammal after all.
o    Not picking up the phone when I'm really at home but don't want to talk to the person on the other end, at least not right away.
o    My bra strap showing (in fact last year, while dressed in a toga, I accidentally flashed my entire lime green bra unknowingly while walking along the sidewalk near campus.)

Yup, I love being 50-something. If you want less stress in your life, I recommend you try it.

Third Time's Not Charming

I've become testy with a few people lately -- primarily people who don't use their turn signals or drive 45 in the parking lot of the grocery store. And pedestrians who, despite almost getting creamed while walking across the street, refuse to put down their cell phones and pay attention to what's going on around them. Not to mention customer service representatives who behave as if I'm interrupting their busy day by asking a question. Small children whose runny noses make me suspect Bubonic plague. Teenagers with their underwear hiked up to their waist and their pants down around their knees. People who dawdle too longin front of the canned tomatoes... You know, the usual suspects.

But here's the thing: I'm not usually easily annoyed. Most of the time, I just repeat "It is what it is" over and over until any irritability passes. Or I make up story lines for sitcoms.

Exterior: A grocery store parking lot -- Day

A small gold Kia with a missing passenger door hurtles past, doing at least 40. A pedestrian screams and shakes her fish (this was supposed to be "fist," but I prefer "fish."). A man in an SUV screeches to a halt.

The Kia hits the brakes and comes to a halt in front of liquor store next door to the grocery chain. Suddenly a meteor the size of a pencil eraser slams to earth, landing smack dab on the hood of the tiny clown car. The Kia goes up in flames.

The liquor store cashier, watching everything through the front window, opens up a new bottle of tequila, takes a few swigs and smiles from ear to ear.

Liquor Store Cashier: Well, boss, I told you your idiot driving was going to kill you some day. it looks like the store's all mine now!

********
This is a much better use of my energy than fuming over things over which I have no control.

But lately, things have taken a turn for the worse. So I decided to do a little research and figure out why. I investigated the hypothesis that I'm on edge about something else and am forced to take it out on strangers making idiotic life choices. Nope, things are fine at home. Then there's the possibility that I have a brain tumor that is causing major changes in my behavior. That would be House's theory, but I don't have a whiteboard to test it on, so I'll jettison that idea.

Hmm.... what other reason could a menopausal woman suddenly become quick-tempered and easily annoyed? I know there must be something. It's on the tip of my brain... starts with a "hor"... Ah, yes, hormones!

Once I'd pinned down the possible culprit, I started to investigate more thoroughly. I'm on the estrogen patch, which I must replace every three days (assuming I remember and can find where I put the last one). On Day 1, I'm just fine. Birds are singing, skies are blue, morons are just a fact of life. Day 2, however, I find myself gritting my teeth a little. The birds are singing all right, but too often it is too early and not very much in tune. The blue skies are a little too blue if you ask me. And morons, well, they seem to be everywhere. But still, I don't feel the need to give them the evil eye, or worse, tailgate them all the way home and then give them a lecture about safe driving and often, a more appropriate style of dress. Day 3, however, all bets are off. I should definitely not be allowed to operate heavy machinery or fondle cutlery. In fact, I probably shouldn't leave the house. What I should do is just find that bottle of tequila and cocoon until it's time to put on a new patch.

Ah, yes. Look at that -- nothing but blue skies do I see.

Let's Hear it for the Bladder

I may criticize my thighs and try to hide my knobby knees from cameras, but there are certain parts of my body that I rarely given a second thought to. In the interest of fairness, today I plan to sing the praises of my bladder.

Perhaps I'm feeling particularly grateful because somehow I ended up as a part of a national survey on women and their bladders. (Can you imagine the Help Wanted Ad for the researchers? "Are you a potty mouth? Then how would you like to get paid for asking questions about urinary frequency, urgency, and other issues that would embarrass most people to talk about with close friends, much less total strangers called up during dinner time? The pay is good and you get frequent breaks -- you'll need them after all that talk about overactive bladder syndrome.")

As part of the study group, I have to answer a detailed survey by phone once every six months or so about the state of my bladder. Oh, and there was the peeing in a cup part too -- which I had to ship via UPS in a styrofoam container the size of my head. But that was so last year. This year, they just want to know how my bladder makes me feel. It's like bladder therapy really, except I don't lie down while on the phone because that generally makes me have to pee.

Here's a sample from my recent conversation with woman I like to call my B.T. (bladder therapist):

BT    Does your bladder keep you from participating in any activities?
Me    Well, it is lousy at the guitar, but makes up for it by having perfect pitch .
BT    So the answer is...
Me    Yes. I can't drive the Indy 500 because I'd have to make too many pit stops.
BT    Does your bladder keep you from socializing with friends?
Me    Well, it is quite picky, but we do go out occasionally. She's always "conveniently" indisposed when the bill comes, however.
BT    So the answer is "No?"
Me    I don't know, I forgot the question.

It was an hour of this -- BT trying to get serious answers to important questions for this nationwide study on the health of women's bladders and me trying to make her laugh so hard she peed in her pants. We did finally make it through the long list of questions and afterward, I felt especially appreciative of all my bladder does for me -- from making sure I get plenty of exercise in malls and airports as I attempt to quickly find a bathroom, to making sure I never oversleep, to stopping me from getting drunk on Vodka & Cranberry Juice. Yep, my bladder is always working for me. I'm just sorry I haven't taken time out to thank it before now.

Next week, my spleen!

Please Don't Make Me be Miss America

The Miss America pageant was on television last week and instead of being anxious and wracked with guilt for not living up to a certain standard of beauty,I breathed a big sigh of relief. Now that I'm menopausal I can finally stop judging myself against a slew of 20-somethings in bikinis.  That's a load off.

My sister used to love watching beauty pageants when we were growing up. With her long chestnut hair and olive complexion, she was often told how beautiful she was, so it made sense that she aspired to compete with other beautiful girls for a sash and a crown. With my braces, black plastic glasses, and slide rule strapped to my belt, I wasn't often singled out for my looks. Instead of Miss America or Miss Universe, my role model was Alex Trebek.

Now I don't have to worry because Miss America doesn't accept middle-aged contestants. This is probably a good idea since having women up there sweating through their expensive evening gowns and onto the judges in the front row might not make for must-see TV. I wasn't sure what the actual requirements for the competition are, so I looked them up. Contestants must be between the ages (and waist size) of 17 and 24, they must be U.S. citizens, in reasonably good health (bunions, pink eye, and anorexia okay; mad cow, athlete's foot, and Tourrette's Syndrome not okay), and able to meet the time commitment and responsibilities of the job.

Those are the stated requirements, but many are implied. You must, for example:
o    Be able to walk in 4" heels without tripping over your own feet and bringing down the other 49 states in a domino effect;
o    Not have an allergy to the petroleum jelly they smear on your teeth to make it easier to smile for the cameras;
o    Be able to watch other contestants throw flaming batons or perform Cirque de Soleil moves or talk about fighting world hunger without snorting with laughter;
o    Not have any odd-looking moles shaped like an armadillo or a state other than the one you represent; and
o    Be able to hold in your stomach for 5-minute intervals without hyperventilating.

Now that I think about it, perhaps there should be a Miss Menopausal USA competition. It would sure be fun to watch, not to mention infomative. Here are just a few of my ideas:

o    Replace the evening wear section of the competition with a "Layered Event" in which each candidate comes out in a nice looking suit and quickly and graciously removes all outer layers before  getting soaked by a hot flash.
o    Open up the talent competition to a number of different kinds of "talent," including fan-dancing, ability to read minds, not taking s**t from anyone (something I'd win), and rapid-fire mood-swinging.
o    Replace Miss Congeniality with "Miss My Estrogen."
o    Instead of an opening dance number, which may be hard considering how difficult it is for we women of a certain age to remember the steps, the menopausal candidates could come out en masse and exchange hormone replacement tips.
o    As emcee, select any man over 50 who is actually dating or married to a woman his own age.

This is a pageant I'd tune in to. Heck, I might even sign up. After all, now that the braces are off, I have contact lenses, and I rely on 12-year olds to do my math for me, I might just stand a chance!

Going Halvsies

2009 has been an odd year so far. Weird stuff has happened, like me teaching grammar to college students. That's about as expected as me teaching etiquette classes at Ms. Mona's School for Wayward Boys. But I'm doing it and wondering what other unique and unexpected things the new year has in store for me.

I also haven't been sleeping well. You probably haven't either, what with the pink slips flying everywhere (I think the U.S. has turned into a giant snowglobe and instead of snow flakes, we've got lay-off notices). Then there's global warming. And the fact that we won't have George W. Bush to kick around any more.

My insomnia may be more personal. On January 1st, I decided to start cutting my estrogen patches in half -- which, by the way, isn't as easy as it seems because they are tiny and sticky and I am a klutz who is usually not allowed around sharp utensils of any kind. Now I only have half as much estrogen coursing through my veins (or whatever estrogen courses through). Perhaps this is why I feel more assertive and late in the day seem to have the faintest outline of a Johnny Depp goatee.

It's been almost 2-1/2 years since I started taking hormone replacements and I'd really like to stop, but like a cigarette smoker, I've found I'm hooked on the stuff. Several times a day I have to take a break to hang around with younger women just to suck up some of theirs. I'm sure complete strangers don't mind when I give them a full body hug and linger just a little longer than socially acceptable. I also find myself waking up early in the morning needing a fix, so I turn on The View.

Now if only I could find a way to sleep through the night sweats. I thought about filling the tub with ice water and putting an air mattress at the bottom, but the dogs objected. They insist on sleeping with me and let's face it, if the dogs aren't happy, no one's happy. I've tried sleeping with the windows open, which is refreshing on these winter mornings that dip down into the upper teens, but all that cold air tends to turn my sweat into frost and I have trouble turning over when I'm actually frozen to the sheets.

There's also a slight issue of the mood swings coming back. But they are much easier to live with now that I've got the Darth Vader helmet I used as a Halloween costume last year. I wear that to the store and people know not to mess with me.

But I muster on, pioneer that I am. I only hope that my experiments prove useful for all the other women out there who are ready to rip off their patches and face the world sweaty and pissed once again.

Mallzheimer's Disease

            I hate going to the mall, but sometimes, the call is too hard to ignore. Especially when the call is 75% off and I’m told every night on the news that if I personally don’t get out and do my part to save the retail industry, the burden of the recession will be on my shoulders.

            So the day after Christmas (which, by the way, is also the day after Jimmy Buffet’s birthday), I headed down to J.C. Penney’s to pick up a few items for gifts for next year’s Buffetmas. (Please don’t hate me because I am one of those people who plan and shop ahead. It’s a genetic disorder.)

          

        There are many reasons I don’t like the mall, but foremost among them is the temperature. In the winter months, every store seems to set their thermostat on “Phoenix” and as a hot-flashing woman, the minute I walk in I have to start my striptease. Off comes the hat and gloves, which are then stuffed into the pockets of my imitation down-filled parka. Then I untie the scarf from around my neck and set it temporarily aside so I can rip my jacket off before I reach nuclear meltdown. The jacket, of course is too bulky to carry without knocking over small children, so I tie it around my waist with my scarf. I’m still sweating, but at least it’s confined to my mid-section. Then I unzip my sweater as low as common decency allows and roll my pants legs up to my knees. I strip off my socks and put them in my purse, making sure the video camera operators see me take them off, so they will know I didn’t steal them. On my way out of the store, I get to put on the whole show in reverse.

            Yep, I’m a thing of beauty to behold at the mall.

            Lately, however, my mall shopping concerns have doubled because I believe I’ve developed Mallzheimer’s disease. No matter where I park my car, I can never remember where it is when I’m done shopping. Sometimes I can’t even remember what car I drove – and I only have the one. But I’ll flash back to cars I’ve previously owned in my life and in my desperation to find anything that looks vaguely familiar, I’ll find myself trying my 2004 Toyota Camry key in a green 1992 Honda Accord despite the fact that it has a child seat in the back and an NRA bumper sticker. Or worse yet, a red 1977 Ford pick-up that resembles one I once hitchhiked in during college.

            I have no recourse but to stand in the doorway of the mall as the stores close, munching on a soft pretzel to keep my strength up, as all the other shoppers find their cars and leave. It’s not until the parking lot is three-quarters cleared out that I usually “remember” where I’ve parked and can rewrap myself in my winter outerwear, dash through the rain, and finally head home.

            Unfortunately, I did the math last week. I spent $43 on items that had originally cost $171, which by the store’s calculations is 75% off. But my quick stop at the store ended up lasting five hours, which at my usual hourly rate of $50 (I’m self-employed, so I have a usual hourly rate) cost me $250, or $225 if you factor in the break for buying and eating the pretzel. Add the $43 I spent plus the $225 it cost in my time and subtract my savings of $171 and my trip to the mall cost me $97.

Hot flashes, memory loss and bankruptcy at the mall. I think next time I’ll pass.

Forever 21

There's a store at my local mall called Forever 21. I'm pretty sure they don't actually mean that, but "21 Until You're 29 and Then You Can Only Shop Here for Your Daughters" isn't as catchy a store name.

The problem is, I'm attracted to everything in this and every other store meant to cater to young, partying women. Despite the fact that I am neither young nor partying (unless you include a night playing Pictionary at home until 9 p.m. when all the guests leave because we're all middle-aged and appreciate the value of a good night's sleep).

I walk by these places and I'm like a child with A.D.D. "Look, a pretty butterfly. Sure, it's on a miniskirt I could only wear as a headband, but look how shiny and purple it is!" Everything is bright and colorful and just exudes fun. Unlike stores meant to cater to women over 50, which basically are either so mother-of-the-bride I feel like crying or they're all red and purple because apparently, once you're old enough to be a red-hatter, these are the only colors you can wear when you want to have a good time (not that there's anything wrong with that, but I need chartreuse and tangerine and turquoise. And apparently, I need it smaller and tighter than should be legal at my age.)

Is it my fault I grew up as a member of the Spandex Generation? We came right after the Hippie Generation and their flowing, gauzy maxi-dresses and long fringed vests. My generation saw a floor-length paisley skirt and thought Grandma, not sexual revolution. We wanted things that clung to our bodies to show off our assets (never mind that my main assets are my hair and my teeth) -- and anything with Spandex fit the bill perfectly. We didn't need hallucinogenic drugs, we had the spinning disco ball, Donna Summers and clothes so tight they took our breath away.

The weird thing is that now that I'm over 50, instead of thinking of Spandex as a fabric that shows off parts of me, I think of it as having the power to flatten out or spread around parts of me. Unfortunately, the only things made with the miracle fabric for my age group are "body shapers" which operate on the principle that without them your body has no shape. Mine has shape. It changes depending upon the earth's gravitational pull that day, but it does have shape. Today's is Bartlett Pear.

Body shapers are made with Spandex and they do accomplish my flattening out/spreading around goals, but they are meant to be worn under clothing. As a hot-flashing woman, I always dress in layers, but I like to know that I can strip down to layer #1 without small children screaming and young men unable to look their mothers in the eyes ever again. So I need my Spandex in the form of shirts and skirts and pants, oh my. Anything to hold in my tummy and thighs and return my boobs to their original longitude.

So if you see me shopping at Forever 21, and I tell you I'm shopping for my niece, just avert your eyes and keep walking. I have Spandex, don't make me use it!

In the Stirrups Again

Last week I had both my head and my cervix examined. One was tilted slightly to one side and the other wasn’t screwed on tight. So, basically, the same ol’, same ol’.

It was a coincidence I went to both my shrink and my gynecologist on the same day. I only see my therapist when I need a tune-up every few years. With my gyno, however, it’s once a year every year. Like clockwork actually. You see, he and were born in the same month of the same year, so we celebrate our birthdays with a pap smear. I toss some confetti on my nether regions and he warms the speculum over the appropriate number of candles.

I’ve been going to the same guy (yes, I still go to a male gynecologist, but it’s okay, he’s Czechoslovakian) for almost a decade. While I was lying there with my feet in the stirrups, opening my birthday chocolate, I thought about how the whole process is different now that I’m over 50.

            It starts out in the waiting area where all the baby magazines scattered on the tables no longer scare me. Now that I’m menopausal, I don’t have to scan through the baby names just in case. Which is good because I’m pretty sure a girl named Pinot Gris would probably be teased mercilessly. And when I see all the pregnant women traipsing in and out of the doors, I don’t get jealous. I smile quietly, thankful that at least my mood swings won’t last eighteen years.

            Then when I get in the doctor’s office, the best part of the whole visit happens – I no longer have to remember when my last period was and how long it lasted. This is a real load off, considering my brain is already overloaded with the lyrics to every song from the 60s and 70s. “Singing bye-bye ice cream and pie, walked four miles on the treadmill to keep you off my thighs…” Okay, maybe those aren’t the lyrics you remember, but they work for me.

            Not only don’t I have to remember the date of my last period, my gyno has it in the computer and can pull it up himself! August 12, 2007.

            My visits are a lot less stressful in many ways these days. For example, it doesn’t cross my mind anymore to flirt while I’m on the table. Because at this point in our relationship, he and I are like an old married  couple. I know exactly what he’s going to do before he does it, so the mystery is gone. And when he asks how often I’m having sex and I tell him three times in the last six months, rather than feeling like I’m letting down my gender by bringing their average down, doc gives me a big thumbs up. That’s a real ego boost, you betcha!

There are a few things that happen during my annual visit now that I’m over fifty that I’m not that happy about. He always reminds me that I should have had a colonoscopy in the past year. And I tell him, when they give them out for free at Jiffy Lube, I’ll be first in line. And we do talk a lot more about moisture than I’m really comfortable with. But all in all, gotta say like fine wine, my gyno visits have gotten better with age. Especially now that I drink a bottle of the stuff before hopping up on the table.