Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause

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.