I wrote an article a few years back about my discovery of the condition called peri-menopause. I discovered it quite by accident, simply looking up symptoms that I was experiencing, convinced I was coming down with some combination of Alzheimer’s and MS accompanied by a high fever. Well, an occasional high fever. And a very bad mood, coupled with an unending desire to pee.
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I realized I wasn’t dying, but instead heading into that (insert sarcasm here) glorious feminine state, that wondrous womanly period of peri-menopause. I didn’t know how long it was going to last, but I diligently began to keep track of my periods, excitedly counting the days until the blasted thing would show up again and send me into another miserable week. I even created an Excel file with all kinds of calculations…let’s see, number of days divided by 365 equals how many years?
Well, as it turns out, as of today, it’s been 4.69589 years since I started keeping track. And I am 19 days away from that one-year mark which would officially make me menopausal. Yay.
I’m going to have a party. Well, I’ll probably just be by myself, but it’ll be a party nonetheless. I should burn something like maybe menstrual pads or a printout of that Excel file. You know, like people have mortgage-burning parties. Something like that. I’ll bake chocolate cookies and drink lots of wine. Or maybe beer and nuts.
Nah, I’m already too fat.
I’ll make a speech. “Thank you all for coming. I want to tell you how much I appreciate you being here, even if it’s only me. I appreciate me being here. Well, the last few years have been hell. Okay, granted I’ve managed to drag out my sense of humour from time to time, especially when I’ve forgotten something for the gazillionth time, like my keys, or when I’ve found myself standing at the fridge with the door open having no idea how I got there. You’ve gotta laugh at that. Not.
“But I can tell you that now that I have reached this pinnacle of life, I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone else. Ladies, just stay the young age you are, it’s just crap up here in the 50’s. The spare tire around the belly alone is enough to put you off, not to mention the thinning hair and foul attitude. I have stripped myself naked more times in one night than I’ve gone to the bathroom. And that’s really saying something. And no, I didn’t strip because I was feeling amorous. More like molten-ous. Yes, I know that’s not a word. But give me credit for SOME creativity, especially since words don’t come so easily to me these days. I mean any words at all. Stupor seems to be a permanent state. And speaking of stupor…here’s a toast to me!” And then I’ll drink like a hound during a heatwave.
It’s probably a good thing there won’t be any young women in attendance. I’d scare them to death and then they’d miss it all.