Seriously, could there be a more irrational and/or dangerous creature on the planet than a woman emptied of estrogen, packing a fully loaded pistol? Forget al-Qaida. Forget those scary wolf spiders carrying all their babies on their back. Nothing rages hotter or more unpredictable than a hot-flashing menopausal woman. Nobody is more apt to punch something than a middle-aged chick running low on estrogen. And by something, I mean people. And by people, I mostly mean husbands. I know this is true. I've seen me do it.
I started birthing babies at 23 years old and was finished by 26. Not so much because I didn't want more babies - I would've taken at least one more of those yummy little nuggets. But my uterus seemed to think otherwise. After blessing the world with a couple of handsome, testosterone-laden boys, my uterus went on strike.
Any young mother can relate to the difficult decision of closing down the baby factory for evermore. But according to my OBGYN, I didn't have much choice. And according to my heart, I knew I had already been blessed beyond measure. So when I was 30 - ready or not - I left that cussed uterus at the hospital, while managing to hang onto my precious ovaries.
Once I resigned myself to the fact that I was out of the baby-making business, I suddenly began to realize the many benefits of living life sans uterus. Beginning with the obvious, of course:
+++ No.More.Periods. Period. "George" (a term of endearment we coined for 'the curse' in high school) had left the building.
+++ No more stressing over birth control. Or worrying about Dickie mistaking my tube of diaphragm jelly for his tube of toothpaste (he still refuses to talk about that little faux pas).
+++ Increased cash flow. We were actually able to buy a new vacuum from the money we saved on feminine hygiene products (not to mention all the extra storage space I cleared out under the bathroom sink). Never again would I worry about Dickie blowing the grocery budget if I sent him to the store to buy tampons. (Why is it that men feel the need to spend $30 on worthless crap just to hide a pretty pink box of tampons in the bottom of their grocery carts?)
+++ Fewer moments of awkwardness in a house full of males. No more mortifying moments with my young son running into the room, proudly displaying his new 'laser gun' he had found in the bathroom trash, clearly identified by my crimson-faced guests as a plastic tampon inserter.
+++ No more raging PMS. Seriously...I could have been the model for the PMS poster child. I was so mean and moody that Dickie took to locking himself in the bathroom for refuge. Not that I would ever allow a bathroom door to come between me and the Dickman. But deep down I knew that his love for me diminished with each PMS-fueled, one-way conversation held through that locked bathroom door.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
So there we were post uterus...me and my unanchored ovaries floating along just fine for about the next 15 years or so. When out of the darkness, like a hormone driven tsunami, along came the dreaded Night Sweats.
Now let's be real...I have never been one of those glistening type of girls. Nope. I've always been more of a sweat like a pig girl. But only during strenuous physical activity. And only on my forehead and under my boobs. It's true - my pits hardly ever sweat.
When I was teaching aerobics (way back in the Dark Ages of Jane Fonda and leg warmers and Lycra) my headband would always be soaked after class. And I would always end up with embarrassing sweat rings under my chesticles and worse --- in my crotchety areas. A mighty classy look that was, especially in spandex. Shiny pink spandex.
But Night Sweats...sheesh! Nothing prepared me for night sweats. Nothing prepared the Dickman for Night Sweats, either. He learned to sleep under a down comforter in the heat of summer, or risk freezing his manly bits, as I insisted on keeping the bedroom the temperature of meat locker.
While I was just learning to cope with the nightly drenching, I'll be danged if I didn't start turning into an inferno during the daytime hours, as well. Hot Flashes...a curse straight from hell. Hot flashes that make you want to jump in a tub of ice water and die happily of hypothermia. Hot flashes that raise your core temperature equal to the boiling lava of Mt. Vesuvius. Talk about packing heat!
Not wanting to walk the risky path of hormone replacement therapy, I decided to go commando - literally and medicinally. I've pretty much tried every homeopathic remedy known to woman to stop the flashes. And I'm here to tell you - neither Black Cohosh nor Flaxseed puts a dent in serious hot flashes. Removing clothing and sticking one's head in the freezer does the trick.
It's been going on for more than 10 years now. I'm not whining, I'm just warning you. If you try to hug me, you will likely get slimed with facial sweat. If you pat me on the back, I'll just apologize right now for the dampness of my shirt. But feel free to grab me under the armpits...that's usually the only part of my body that stays relatively dry.
After so many years, I've come to accept my fate: I no longer have hot flashes; hot flashes have me.
My biggest complaint is that the excessive sweating has knocked out any chances I ever had of being on Dancing With The Stars. I just couldn't subject my ♥Maks♥ to that much sweating.
As I have traveled down this sweaty road, I have stumbled upon an amazing and empowering revelation...one that I wish to pass along to all my fellow Matrons of Menopause. To all of us bonded by our dwindling estrogen and shriveling ovaries, our drenched sheets and dripping double chins I give you this:
The next time you wonder where all those hormones go after your uterus has gone, just know that YOU are the warming behind Al Gore's Theory of Global Warming. There is no ozone hole made from excessive use of Aqua Net Hair Spray. It's you. It's me. It's us.
Global Warming is nothing more than mass bodies of female Baby Boomers hot flashing their way through menopause. The Change, indeed.
Now excuse me while I go sweat.
"It is sad to grow old but nice to ripen" ~ Brigitte Bardot
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