I am hot.
I am cold.
I am restless.
I am anxious.
I am sleepless.
I feel out of control.
Menopause. The change. Every woman hates it, fears it, denies it. The dark door leading to, gasp, old age. Or, at least, that is the portrayal. There isn't much to be said in it's favor, other than the cessation of menstruation. That happened a long time ago for me, with a hysterectomy. Without a menses, I had no harbinger of gloom. Instead, a few years ago, I had a blood test to determine if my ovaries were still working...producing hormones. Results: My doctor declaring that I was, "Well past that." My response, "That was easy." She said most women are a bit more emotional at the news. I told her, I was just glad I had gotten through it without all the horror stories I had heard, and no one had been murdered. There had been a few moments of outrageous heat enveloping my body. But now the blood work said we were all done, tied up in a neat package with a bow. Cool, let's get on with life. I have things to do.
Except...
apparently, my ovaries did not get the news that the factory was shut down. There must be a union, no shutters on this plant. The endocrine system is a complicated, interconnected network of glands. One stimulates, or inhibits, another. So the production, or lack of, by the ovaries, is a system wide issue creating a variety of miserable symptoms. Except the blood test said I was done! Well, apparently, well past, is not done. Why did I expect this to be any different? My body has always had a mind of it's own, going off willy-nilly, confounding doctors far and wide. I have watched more than one doc shake his head in dismay.
So here I sit at an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning, because I can't sleep. I'm restless. I'm hot. I keep having adrenaline spikes leaving me feeling anxious and restless...and grumpy. I don't think I mentioned that before. Damn it, I'm grumpy. It's way too freaking early to be grumpy. I need some kids to yell at. Get out of my yard! Oh. Hell.
So, I am talking about the elephant in the closet of every woman, over a certain age. I can't decide if I just need to paint him to match the decor or douse him in alcohol and set him ablaze. Did I mention homicidal? Be very careful if you decide to make fun of a menopausal woman. There are judges that are women, after all. It may be a perfectly legitimate argument that you deserved your fate.Maybe a pitcher of sangria, it's 5 o'clock somewhere, right? And a gallon of paint. I need a project. I have the overwhelming desire to paint a room. Maybe the need to change my environment. Maybe the desire to expel some of this excess energy. Then I'd feel better...until I'm well past it...again.
