Menopause: Satan's Plan V

I've always had bad luck. Well, where I call it bad luck, the hubster calls it klutziness. I swear, I'm like the kiss of death when it comes to stubs and sprains. Sometimes I feel like Rosanne Rosannadanna, because it's always something. If it's not one thing, it's definitely another. Did you know, there is only one toe left that I have not broken? Now, that little nugget of useless information does sweeten the pot. Seriously, don't engage me because it will only get more graphic.

To my credit, it's not always my fault. Two weeks ago the dog spit up on the kitchen floor and I traipsed through it in flip flops. To be sure, it was one of those slow motion moments, as I slid sideways and hit the floor. I tell you, a couple more pounds around the middle and I could have bounced. Too bad, because my elbow is still sore.

If I'm not breaking something, or stubbing something, this stubborn body refuses to cooperate. Well, let's just call that "Plan V".

Still, I always like to think of myself as tough as old boots. You know, someone who soldiers on. When I was younger, I broke a toe (little surprise there) while working a job that required me to stand and walk a lot. Later, I had temporary pain, tingling and numbness in my fingers during a job where I needed to type a lot. Oh yes, then there was that time I cut my finger off in the door and had it sewn back on. I probably don't need to expand upon just which hand it occurred. Recently, there has been the outright refusal and strike of my body to store something as simple as vitamin D, and lethargic and arthritic-like symptoms ensue. Of course, aging couldn't possibly be any different for me in this realm. The old bod just continues to delight as Plan V has set in.

I used to think women who opted for hysterectomies were just plain sissies. All of my friends have had one, making me feel a bit superior. Well, that is until this aging carcass adopted its own set of rules. Oh no, I couldn't just make it through to menopause without the petals falling off my flower power. Heavens no. It has to be my luck that during the glorious moment when I thought I was nearly free of the V, the female plumbing had to go awry. What a cheerful way to end the series, if you know what I mean.

If I haven't been personally wrangling with hemorrhaging, doctor's trips and a biopsy, I might have found it all terribly amusing. No seriously. Peri-menopause is like a bad comedy of errors. Just when you think you are nearly finished with wildly fluctuating hormones, child-bearing, hot flashes, the terror of missed periods and spotting, Satan, himself, makes a debut.

I guess I can see why so many women opt to have it all ripped out. O-M-G I want to rip that ram out, but hells bells I've made it this far. I had sensibly and somewhat stoically managed to tame the 'coagulation of evil' women joke about, without much effort on my part. To be honest, I thought myself one of the lucky ones.

I can probably count the number of hot flashes on my fingers and toes, and I thank regular exercise for that. To think I planned to get away nearly scot-free with only an extra 12 lbs. of water weight gain every month, which would spike my blood pressure, and only relieve itself with one of those handy water pills that brings seventeen trips to the toilet.

I should have known not to pat myself on the back so hard for lowering my blood pressure to the rather mundane 120/80 range. I even went so far as to ace Cramps and Grumpiness 101, Intermediate Hot Flashes and even Advanced Bloating and Weight-gain.  I've played the trooper for years, and after all that it would be almost sacrilege to opt for surgery now. Damned sketchy uterus.

I don't know what's worse. The utter bullshit that is periods, cramps, tampons, labor and a virtual monthly blood-letting, or the fact that there are actually men who want to turn into women? For the love of God, why?

I'd like to see them bleed heavily and gush chunks, while stuffing a cotton wad up their hoohay every 20 minutes for 36 hours. Oh yes, all this with no sleep and without wailing like an infant and falling into the fetal position. How does anyone think we can even hold down a job during this? For the love of God, somehow, month after month, we do.

As I finished up with my ObGyn this morning, she said what I've been lamenting over for at least five years, "Can you hurry up and just enter menopause already?" I'm trying, believe me, I'm summoning the will.