or at least manslaughter.
Sorry Man Readers, you can feel free to skip this one if you want.
When I was 22, I lived in Boston. My Mom came to visit and we drove up to Rouses Point, New York (her hometown) for my grandmother’s birthday. Rouses Point is on Lake Champlain, sandwiched between Vermont and Montreal. In November, it is really freakin’ cold there. One night we were cooking dinner in the old house that my mom grew up in; and she kept going out on the screened sun porch and fanning herself because she was so hot. I was squawking for her to close the door because I, like a sane person, was freezing. It was 1987, my mother was 47 years old and in menopause.
Now, I’m the 47-year-old woman in the throes of menopause.
I was perimenopausal for years; which means I had BO, mood swings and night sweats yet still had the good fortune to get my period! After more than five years enjoying sweating through my pajamas in the middle of the winter and slamming my car door so hard in a tantrum over forgetting the dry cleaning that now the car window rattles if it isn’t all the way rolled up…. after five years of that, I believe I am now in menopause. I haven’t had my period since August 2011. My naturally oily skin and hair isn’t so oily anymore which is really great because I don’t have to shampoo my hair everyday if I don’t want to. I also look younger than my years. My acne keeps me looking youthful.
That’s right! There is another bonus to menopause (NOT another one Maggie! Our middle-aged woman cup overfloweth!) Oh yeah, I thought the zits were gone for good but they’re not. Nope, they are back and they are cystically new and improved.
A week or so ago, Annie and I went to Macy’s and had our brows waxed at the Brow Bar, which is splendidly pink.
Sara or Stella or Sally or whoever was waxing us, asked me if I had a good acne medicine — probably because of the boil on the side of my nose. Yes, yes I do Stally and thank you for asking. I told her that I have found that old age acne is different than the acne I remember from back in the glory days of tetracycline and Buf Pufs. Now I get bumps that I think will be zits but nothing really happens. The bump appears, gets really big and red and noticeable; then after a month or so dies down and goes away. Stally says, “You mean they’re more cystic.” I don’t know, is that what I mean? Apparently yes, I have more CYSTIC acne. Isn’t that a pretty adjective?
Cystic, adj.: Of, relating to, or characterized by cysts.
My face is of, relating to, or characterized by cysts. That’s yummy.
I don’t know if I have mentioned this but I am the oldest person in my office. There are seven of us and I’m the oldest. My boss is the next oldest and he just turned 40. The youngest was born in 1988, which is a ridiculous year for an adult to be born. How can I be working with a man who was born after I graduated from college?!
I’m telling you that… to tell you this: Last winter, some of my coworkers didn’t like it when I opened the office door to the 4th floor hallway to get some circulation going because I was so damn hot. Some of my young coworkers would express dismay at the door being open. They would recover quickly and say it was okay; that they would just shut their doors if they felt cold. I will never be a good poker player, my face makes it very clear when you shouldn’t fuck with me.
I got home from work this evening and felt the beginnings of a hormonal funk coming on. Hormones. I am concerned about one of the kids having a rough time with her grades. I quickly went from teary to bitter to angry to barely controlled seething rage finally collapsing in hopelessly fat. If any of my gentlemen readers have made it this far; running through that range of emotions took me about 90 seconds.
I didn’t want anything for dinner because I had a big lunch like a fat ass. You know what? I’m not even going to eat dinner. I’m going to eat some of these chocolate covered espresso beans and I don’t even like coffee. And I’m going to chase those with some graham crackers covered in Nutella! That will show me to be a fat stupid old lady.
You know what the cure for all of that is?
Out of the blue, have a 4-year-old tell you he thinks you look pretty.