I’ve been kinda obsessed with menopause lately, probably because I think I might be pre-menopausal. I’m in my mid forties. Not sure if that is young to be going through this, but I conferred with my sister who is two years older than me and she is going through it too so we’re thoroughly convinced that we are the unfortunate recipients of some pretty fucked up bad genetics leading to early menopause. I remember how my Grandmother used to throw dishes, smoke and run around in her silver dancing shoes and Mary Tyler Moore housecoat acting all crazy and shit while she was going through menopause. I’ve had two periods in the past 14 months. Was told that once you start skipping periods and then you have one, the clock starts over again and you have to wait a full 12 months of period free months to declare that you are officially in menopause. That’s where I am now.
Men-O-Pause. I’m sure it’s name is fair warning to the men in our lives. Me: “Yeah, you better pause and take that shit somewhere else right now.”
It has its benefits though. I really won’t miss buying tampons and shoving them up my v-hole, but I also think it’s one of life’s cruel jokes that the process turns women into total c*nty-bitches while subsequently lining the pockets of greedy ComEd (my electric company). I like it cold when I sleep. Really cold. My air conditioner runneth over.
Now if my quirks weren’t neurotic enough pre-menopause, I have sensory issues which require me to wear long sleeves to bed even when it’s 122 degrees outside. This is an expensive quirk in the summer because the air conditioning needs to be about 5 degrees cooler than it would be if I wore a wife beater and because I’m peri-MEN-O-PAUSAL I need the house about 10 degrees cooler.
Another added “benefit” of my old eggs is that I’ve become extremely paranoid about my children’s safety.
Now, you don’t need to be a psychiatrist to figure out the reason. Since I can’t have anymore children, I kinda want to keep the ones I have in good working order. I don’t want anything to happen to them and I’d like them to live longer than me because I can’t go out and buy a new one if they get ruined. This has lead to my becoming terrified to fly on a plane with them, because I can’t stop thinking if the plane went down, not only would they die a horrible death and die in fear, which would be the most horrible heartbreaking disturbing thing in the world, but I would die putting them in a statistically safe situation that went statistically improbably horribly wrong during a time which I was perimenopausal death phobic. How much would that suck? But everyone is death phobic, right? The difference between death phobic in real life and death phobic while you’re perimenopausal is that your old eggs make you death phobic on steroids.
I also suffer from sweaty palms when my kids ride roller coasters, thinking of all the ways it can go wrong in the hands of some minimum wage high school loser roller coaster attendant wanting to get outta there to have “sex is new to me” sex with his dumb high school loser girlfriend and get high or something. One error and one could fail to be safely secured and plummet to their death.
I’m also worried about my son beginning to drive and all the texting-while-driving aholes out there. And tornadoes. What if a tornado hits while my kids are at school and I can’t get to them? What if ISIS comes over here and goes all Terrible Timmy Terrorist on our asses? What if some survivalist fucker has a bad day while we’re at the mall or my neighbor’s Nigerian cleaning crew sneezes on us?
So, this is what I’ve been going through lately.