I remember hearing a song about smiling faces. The song was a warning of sorts about being aware of smiling faces. I can vouch for being aware of smiling faces. I have a smiley face trauma. My Mom gave me a pamphlet. It had a smiley face on the cover. I should have known better but I was only ten. It told of how having a period made you a woman and that a period was your “friend.” There was a lot of information that was missing from that booklet. There was no mention of “the sprint” which is best defined as the urgent feeling that blood is running uncontrollably down your leg, requiring you to get to the bathroom in a matter of seconds. Not in the pamphlet. Day two was the heaviest day. This was not in the pamphlet either. Day two is the day that I schedule as little as humanly possible. After almost forty years I have learned to accept it. These little events have all become an integral part of my monthly routine. I have embraced the whole womanhood, time of your life theory. If you can’t beat em joint em kind of living. Embrace your reality. I am looking for the positive. My ability to plan my schedule around day two is a skill that I should be able to list on my resume under time management extraordinaire.
Time has marched on. I am almost fifty. The period has decidedly taken on a life of it’s own. It shows up when it wants, stays as long as it wants and leaves when it wants. Day two is no longer as significant as it was. My “friend” used to be regular. Every twenty-eight days, lasting five days and out. Now, the only thing regular about it is that it is irregular. Well, I have had enough of the whole womanhood thing and quite frankly I don’t need more friends. I would be very happy if the whole thing just went away. I am told that that is what is actually happening and I am delighted, overjoyed, and just downright happy about it. I want to do the happy, happy dance of joy. Then it happened. Or didn’t. The smooth transition that I envisioned was not going to happen. The smiley face pamphlet left this part out too. I am very disappointed in the pamphlet. I have been led astray.
Menopause is a condition that you can’t diagnose until it is over. You can’t know if you have completed your menopausal task until you have been period free for a year. What kind of insanity is that? Who thought that up? Would men stand for this? I don’t think so. I can just see the doctor explaining this. “I’m sorry sir but your penis is wilting. It will get smaller and smaller until it ceases to work. Then we will know that you have passed through penisapause.” But wait, it gets better. Because menopause can’t be diagnosed until it is over the powers that be have come up with a name for what happens before the diagnosis. Sort of like, clues. And a name. They had to name it. It can’t be anything without a name. Are you following this logic? I too am having a difficult time comprehending this situation. The saying that “I have some swampland” keeps replaying in my head. The name they came up with for the catch all, not really here yet, but here are a lot of clues is called Perimenopause. I’m not sure who came up with that name but they did not put a great deal of thought into it. It’s like naming your child Beelzebub. It pretty much guarantees the outcome.
I am not even going thru grown up menopause. How sad is that? I used to have periods and cramps. I used to have regularity. Now, I have lots of different vague symptoms. My symptoms are not exactly like anyone else’s symptoms. They are so vague that I didn’t know that I had them and the greatest minds in science didn’t either. Perimenopause includes irregular periods, headaches, excessive bleeding, no bleeding, inability to concentrate, and my personal favorite which is memory loss. There is nothing more exciting than being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting the words after they leave your brain but before they exit your mouth. The fogginess is also fun. It’s all in the attitude. Loosing your car in the parking lot of the grocery store so you have to push the full cart around the entire lot a few times is all the latest in practical exercise. I’m embracing. The best thing about this new exercise is that you can talk to all of the other women who are also walking the lot looking for their cars. We are all in this together. The feeling that you are moving in slow motion and nothing is quite clicking is best described as crappy. It’s not very creative description but pretty accurate. My favorite part of the syndrome that isn’t really here yet but is coming are the pimples. To add insult to injury the pimples are not the little kind that sort of blend in and look like smudges. No, these are the large red ones that look a bull’s eye on your face. These pimples are the kind that don’t get covered up with makeup. The tip is always showing thru. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I don’t recall reading about these in that pamphlet with the smiley face on it.
I think we should sue. Let’s start with Prince Charming. It turns out he isn’t real either.
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