Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause

Hold the Colonoscopy

We'd better find a solution to the health care mess soon because I'm two and a half years behind on my colonoscopy. (For those of you who have now figured out my age and are in a state disbelief, I share your shock).

Having gotten my masters degree in public health, I tend to have medical tests when the medicals recommend having them. This despite the fact that my baseline mammogram caught on fire. If you haven't read about that, you can go here:

www.accidentalcomic.com/columns/firstmammo.pdf

When you turn fifty, many exciting things happen. First, the AARP tracks you down and starts filling your mailbox with reminders that no matter how many others you may fool into believing you are still in your late-forties, they know your real age. They can find anyone. Personally, I don't know why someone hasn't sent the AARP after Osama bin Laden -- he is in their target demographic.

Next, your doctor tells you that your colon has gotten saggy and will soon fall out. Okay, maybe that's your uterus, but he does insist that you need to have a camera stuck up your bum. I don't think I'm that photogenic from the outside, but I once had photos taken of my ovaries that weren't half bad, so perhaps if I gussied my colon up, I wouldn't have to hide the pictures under the sofa cushions.

That, of course, assumes I'll ever have those photos taken. You see, I have one of those health insurance plans that has a $5000 deductible and I never come close to meeting it thanks to healthy living and a strong dose of denial. The colonoscopy people (I envision them in white lab coats with powerful LED lights strapped to their heads at all times, including during dinner with the family)... the colonoscopy people say that the procedure costs about $1200, but if they find anything -- a polyp, a paper clip, your self esteem -- the price just goes up until they're satisfied that your colon is clean enough to eat off of. You may be healthy at that point, but you also may be so poor that you end up stealing tongue depressors and backless paper gowns in order to fashion a tent by the river that you will live out the rest of your days in.

I'm not much of a gambler and the few times I have taken a chance it hasn't paid off. I once got a skin rash from the stuff you scrape off Lotto scratch-its (perhaps that's why they're called scratch-its?) I don't bungee jump, sky dive, or eat sushi. So I'm not going to double down a the colonoscopy table until it's fully covered by my insurance. If Uncle Sam wants photos of my intestines, he's going to have to pay for them.

Dating in the Dark? No Thanks

Dating in the Dark is a new reality TV show (if by "reality TV" you mean "show that attempts to discover how shallow people are willing to act in front of millions of viewers who have nothing better to do with their time.) I haven't seen the show, but I have seen the commercials. Which is why I haven't seen the show. Well, that and the fact that occasionally I DO have a life.

From what I can glean from 30-second ads, the show features three men and three women who meet as a group in total darkness, then they arrange for individual dates also in the dark. Some of them apparently just chat the entire time while others take the opportunity to make out with a complete stranger who may or may not be Carrot Top (that would be my biggest nightmare).

Then they expose the contestants to each other under the harsh reality of fluorescent light and each must decide whether they want to see the other again now that they've seen their bad hair, hippie shoes, or birthmark shaped like the state of Texas. These decisions are made on the show, with a guy or a girl waiting on the patio to see whether or not he or she will be dumped. Because it's important that we all share in the humiliation and ego-deflation. Apparently these shows are produced by middle-schoolers. I'm suprised the dumpees aren't also given wedgies as the final credits roll.

It appears that the mean age of the contestants on this show is mid-twenties, which makes sense. Because if they were, say, in their 40s, the producers would have a hard time getting an hour-long show out of it. A typical "date" might go like this:

Midlife Woman: Wow, it really is dark in here.

Midlife Man: I like it. I have more hair in the dark.

MLW: And I DO NOT have a muffin top.

MLM: Wanna make out?

MLW: Sure, but don't tell my grandkids.

MLM: You have grandkids? Uh, cut!

Or, perhaps, this is equally likely:

MLW: So, what made you decide to come on this show? Did your wife dump you  for cheating on her and then you decided you should go ahead and play the field as long as you had some Viagra left, but the cute blonde receptionist at your periodontist's office laughed at you and called you a "Mougar"?

MLM: Yeah, but it was the dental hygenist...

MLW: I'm outta here.

It's not that midlife daters are picky, it's just that with age is supposed to come wisdom and surely part of that wisdom is knowing that someone you meet on a reality TV show filmed without lights will probably not live up to a very strict set of criteria. And once you've been married to or dated a sex addict, a meth dealer with a gambling problem, and Carrot Top, well, you tend to want to make sure that at least those items are checked off the list. I know I am.

If I were dating, I'd definitely demand the lights stay on -- despite the fact that I look younger in semi-darkness. Call me pick or call me wise. It's your choice.

Learning to Walk

Of all the injuries you can sustain in life, pulling a muscle in your butt from sitting at your desk too long has to rank up there with the most humiliating. Especially when you have to explain it to a physical therapist who obviously lifts hybrid cars on her lunch break to keep in shape.

It's nice to have a medical diagnosis for my pain in the butt (a pulled ischial tuberosity), but I could have done without our conversation. It went something like this:

PT:    Why don't you have a seat on the table?

I sit down. At least that's what I think I'm doing.

PT:    Oh no. That's all wrong.

Me:     Yeah, I know, I slouch a little when I sit. I've been working on it (mostly by visualizing myself sitting taller, not by actually doing anything about it).

PT:    Yeah, the sitting sucks. But you don't sit down properly. That's part of your problem right there. Stand up.

I do, with some trepidation.

PT:    Wow. You don't stand up right either. No wonder your butt hurts. I'm surprised you can walk at all.

She then proceeded to show me how when sitting, one should bend at the hip joint first as if a large guy with a black belt has just karate chopped you at the pelvis, and then lower your butt down. The same action is supposed to happen when standing up, only in reverse. We practiced this for 10 minutes. (Her bill was $300 for an hour, so I spent $50 learning how to sit down and stand up).

You'd think that at the ripe age of mumbledy-something, I'd have figured out the basics in life such as sitting, standing, walking, and not paying $300 an hour to have a physical therapist make me feel bad about myself. But nooo... Apparently I have a really long learning curve.

After ten minutes, she was happy with my progress, so I got to demonstrate standing in place for her. Again, I didn't have that down either.

PT:    Your right hip is way in front of your left hip.

This explains why I always tend to veer to the left, I guess. I though she was going to tell me I should step twice with my right leg for each step on the left just to even up the difference, but instead she dug her thumb into my hip joint so deeply I believe police could identify her from the print she left on my femur.

I still have a pain in my butt and now my right hip hurts too. And I'm afraid to either sit or stand, for fear someone will judge me. I wonder if there's anything wrong with my squat?

Relationship Help on Wheels

Driving back from Portland, Oregon yesterday, I saw a full-size travel trailer painted flame red with the black silhouettes of three obviously young naked women (or naked and living on a planet with little or no gravity) on the side. I immediately thought that strip clubs had gone mobile. If you think talking on cell phones is distracting, you should have seen the guys in SUVs and hybrids swerving all over the road trying to get close enough to catch a peep.

The company name on the side of the trailer was slumberparties.com. Needless to say I Googled it the minute I got home.

Slumberparties.com is like Tupperware, only instead of selling kitchenware that burps, they sell bedroomware in case the man in your life burps and you need something to spice up the romance. Had to love the lingo used to get women to consider holding their own "slumber party" and encouraging their friends to becomes sales representatives:

"It's impossible not to get excited about..."
"11 of our consultants got lucky at our conference in Vegas..."
"It's time for you to get your girlfriends in on the fun..."

These PR people need to get to work on universal health care so everyone will buy into it.

The product line carried by slumberparties.com ranges from glow in the dark condoms to "sexy" ice cube trays to g-strings of the month to whips and bondage tape (it looks like duct tape, but perhaps is scented with phermones). There was also an inflatible sheep -- I have no idea what for. Perhaps to count after the guy falls asleep?

If only those men on the freeway had known what was in the van. Many would have never let off the accelerator, while a few may have braked hard and whimpered for their mommy.

I'm not a prude, but as a midlife woman, this is not what it takes to turn me on. But I do now have a a great idea -- I'll start my own sexual fantasy company for women over 50. Our product line will include:

o    A full-time maid to make sure our bed is always made and there are no wet towels or undies on the floor
o    Mood lighting that improves whatever you feel needs improvement, but nothing else
o    Make-out music from the 60s and 70s
o    A cell phone with only your chiropractor's number pre-programmed (in case you insist on trying out the Kama Sutra)
o    Some of that bondge tape to keep the kids out of the room
o    Flannel nightgowns with a zipper down the front

I'm sure I'll have more product ideas as I start developing my business plan. But I know one thing for sure -- my trailer won't feature naked women. It will have silhouettes of men doing chores around the house!

Eyelash Deficiency

According to Brooke Shields and the people at Latisse, I have "eyelash insufficiency." Great -- as if I didn't have enough to worry about, what with hot flashes, memory loss, and that Norwegian wharf rat who keeps trying to come into my living room through the doggy door. Apparently, the dogs have told him we have cookies inside.

It appears that we women are supposed to have a rainforest of hair growing from our upper eyelids, but not anywhere else. No, not even there. Especially there, thanks to the Sex and the City girls. And it's not just the eyelash-farmers who say so, but the mascara-pushers as well. Maybelline has an ad (nauseum) that insists, "What stilettos do for your legs, Lash Stiletto does for your lashes." In other words, it causes cramps, shortening of muscles, and will eventually throw my back out? I'm not sure I can afford a mascara that does all that.

I do occasionally wear mascara -- usually only when I'm going "Out" or going to be onstage performing. My dogs know the minute I start lengthening my lashes that we are NOT going to the park, so they run off to sulk in the living room. I'd say that 90% of the time, I run around with my skinny insufficient lashes naked as the day I was born. The nerve of me!

It sometimes worries me that there are women who actually think about their eyelashes. Oh, I can see the point if yours are so paltry you can't blink away dust particles, but surely this isn't a big problem. And really, substandard eyelashes look good in comparison to some of the potential side effects Latisse lists on the product website:

o    Possible browning of your baby-blues (perhaps they should use that old Crystal Gayle song, "Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue?" as their jingle);
o    Eye itching for a "short period" of time (one to two weeks, according to the small print. If you've ever had a yeast infection, you know that any kind of itching for more than a few hours is not a minor side effect); and my favorite
o    The potential for hair growth in areas where the solution comes in repeated contact with skin surfaces. Lovely! I can barely brush my teeth without getting toothpaste everywhere, so I'm sure it would only be a matter of days before I started sprouting chest hair. And believe me, if that happened, no one would be looking at my lashes.

The rat and I also wonder what kinds of animals they tested this stuff on. We're hoping it's the human kind. I have a basic rule -- unless rats and rabbits are going to be wearing the stuff, keep your hands off them.

You also have to use the stuff for 12-16 weeks for "complete results," which I assume is the time at which you get the full "tarantula perched on my eyelid" effect. I can't remember to take my vitamins every morning, so how could I possibly remember to apply a solution to my eyelids every night for longer than it takes a kangaroo to gestate?  And when you stop using the stuff, your eyelashes return to "normal," which I hear is a fate worse than being caught with teeth not white enough to read by.

So I'll just bat my insufficient lashes and say, "No thanks, Brooke. I'll spend that $240 on something I really need like a 80 boxes of popsicles. That ought to keep me cool for at least a month."

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!