Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Day 73, July 31

Well, another year has passed and another birthday has crept upon me.

Birthdays at my age are not so much a celebration  as they are a sigh of relief, as in "I made it through another year."  This last year has not been a piece of (birthday) cake.  Two weddings, a hip replacement, and dealing with a menopausal mate have multiplied my wrinkles and doubled up my use of Lady Clairol.

Anymore, I don't measure birthdays by years.  I measure them by how far my breasts have drooped.  I even have a special ruler to keep track of their fall from grace. 

Do you think there's a market for such a thing?

Monday, July 30, 2012

Day 72, July 30

A friend gave me an early birthday card:  On it, an obese woman in a robe stood on the scales, her breasts pointing downward like two giant cones.  The caption read:  "Your body is a temple."

At one time, my body was a temple, an alabaster monument of toned flesh and muscle.  Any more, that temple is more of a ruin. That once toned flesh and muscle has given way to flabby flesh and mushy muscles. 

Age, time, and gravity took their toll, along with a fondness for cheesecake.  As I've said before, I'm mostly okay with that.  After all, even the Parthenon started to crumble.

Occasionally, though, I long for that temple of my youth.  Ah well, bodily temples are overrated.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Day 71, July 29

I am not a big fan of Mother Nature.  I know I should be.  We should all love nature.  And how can a woman not love a sister mother?  But there you have it.  I don't love Mother Nature.


The answer is simple:  Mother Nature has not been kind to me.  She has stripped me of my natural moisture and oils; she has taken my looks; she has stomped on my innate good cheer.

If Mother Nature were truly a friend, she would have whispered to me in my youth to take better care of myself.  She would have reminded me to enjoy my youth while I had it.  She would have been a friend!

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Day 70, July 28

Once you've reached menopause, you can forget doctors bothering with any health complaints you might have. 

Hot flashes?  It's menopause.  Can't sleep?  It's menopause.  Bad feet and aching joints?  Menopause again.  I'd be more resentful, but I can't argue with them.  Menopause did me in.  What's more, it's still doing me in.

Just when I think I have the whole thing figured out, I develop something new.  Lately I've had the desire to throw tantrums worthy of a two-year-old.   A near miss was a would-be tantrum in the middle of the grocery store.  Why?  The refrigerated aisle wasn't refrigerated enough.  I quickly pulled out a bag of frozen peas and held it against my chest.

Then there was the time I almost threw a tantrum in church.   (The air conditioning wasn't working.)   Can't you see the headlines?  "Grandmother of four throws herself to the floor in church and kicks feet up and down.  Had to be sedated with a bottle of chocolate syrup and four Prozac."

Oh, menopause.  What have you in store for me next?

Friday, July 27, 2012

Day 69, July 27

Ever get the feeling your stuff strutted off without you?--Maxine

My stuff, whatever that is, definitely strutted off without me.  Some of that stuff, my breasts, took a nosedive toward my knees and are fast reaching my toes.  Other stuff, such as my once sort of sharp mind, took a different kind of detour.  I think it is currently vacationing in Bimini.

Too bad it didn't take me with it.

And my other stuff?  Well, my emotional stability found solace in a carton of Blue Bunny ice cream, while my spirituality fell asleep in church.

What can I say?  My stuff strutted off, leaving what was left of me far behind.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Day 68 ,July 26

I just finished reading an article telling me why I'm so tired.  The answer?  Enzymes.  I don't have enough of them.  Or, more precisely, I don't have enough of the right ones.

I have a much simpler reason.  I'm tired because my body has been through four pregnancies.  My breasts have nursed four children.  My hands have changed more diapers than Congress has witnessed lies.  My arms have lifted 28,923 loads of laundry.  And my brain has tackled hundreds, if not thousands, of homework problems.

Enyzmes be damned.

I've earned the right to be tired.  In fact, all mothers have earned the right to be tired.  When did we decide that we didn't have that right?  And who had the nerve to tell us that?

If I take an enyzme, will I suddenly be less tired?  I don't think so.  My body is simply reacting to more than three decades of hands-on mothering.  And now it's saying, "Hey, Jane, how 'bout giving me a rest?  It's all right if you admit to being 60 years old and that you have the tired-on from hell.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Day 67, July 25

I just returned from a visit to my sister in Utah.  Carla (my sister) has a lovely home.  I have only one problem with it:  mirrors.  It has too many.

Mirrors are not my friend.

In her bedroom, the closet doors are covered with mirrors.  Another full length mirror is hanging from the door.  The bathroom boasts fold-out mirrors so that one can view herself from any number of unflattering angles.  To add insult to injury, it also has a magnifying mirror.

I made the mistake of looking into the magnifying mirror and nearly fell over.  Only the toilet at the back of my knees prevented me from landing on my tush.  Who was that looking back at me?  This woman had pores the size of the moon's craters, bristling hairs clinging to her chin, and sunken eyes.

That doesn't begin to take in the elongated nose that's growing longer with every day, drooping ear lobes, and thinning lips.  The magnifying mirror did its job, magnifying every single defect to hideous clarity.  I flipped it to the "normal" side and heaved a sigh of relief.  The pores had diminished, the hairs had disappeared, and the eyes, well the eyes, were still sunken but at least I could identify them as eyes.

I came away, shaken but resolved in my conviction that mirrors are not my friend.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Day 66, July 24

Did you know that men can go through menopause as well as women?  Of course it is different in that men never had menses.  But make no mistake about it:   middle-aged men are no picnic to live with.

First, there is the "Mine is bigger than yours" syndrome.  Men are constantly one-upping each other.  It doesn't matter whether it's the size of their bank accounts, the size of the fish they caught, or the size of ... well, I'll leave that to your imagination.  Men have to compete.  My husband says they're born that way. 

Then, there is the "Why don't you get your body overhauled?" challenge to their wives.  My mate would like me to go under the knife and get a whole new me.  In truth, I've thought about it as well.  Why shouldn't I get a new face, new breasts, a flatter stomach, and a firmer tush? 

Finally, there is "I've got to have a Porsche."  They see possessing a Porsche (or a Corvette or whatever) as the answer to life's problems.  They will once again be twenty-five with the world by a tail and their lives in front of them. 

The egos of menopausal men are fragile and require tender loving care.  Too bad my TLC is as used up as my patience.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Day 65, July 23

Sometime between breast-feeding and breast-sagging, between birth control pills and KY Jelly, women enjoyed a brief respite .  We had not yet developed the spare tire around our middles, grown the chin hairs that feel like a boar's bristles, and acquired the distressing habit of bladder leakage.

This respite gave us a moment to catch our breath.  Our children had not yet decried our ineptness at motherhood and declared that they hated us. Yes, we were living high.

Then it hit.

Perimenopause.  Perimenopause is a kind of twilight.  And I don't mean the twilight where Bella is courted by savagely handsome males (never mind their species).  I'm talking the kind of twilight where we are neither fish nor fowl, where we are too young for Depends and too old for a bikini wax.

We still have periods, but they have grown irregular.  We still have hormones, but they, too, are irregular.  In fact, they send us in mood swings that take us from sweetly docile creatures to screaming shrews.

By the time menopause hits, we are nearly crazy and welcome what we see as relief.   In retrospect, I realieze that is akin to welcoming the Trojan horse. into our bosoms.

Menopause is here to stay.  We might as well make peace with it. 

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Day 64, July 22

Once you reach the 50 and older mark, the subject of health and fitness occupies your every waking thought.  You start considering procedures that even five years ago, you would have laughed at. 

High colonics is one such thing.  When I first came upon this term, I have to admit that I didn't know what it was.  Was it like high tea where crumpets and Earl Grey are served in saucers and demitasse cups?  

The short answer is "No."  I went to, where else, the Internet, to learn just what high colonics was and came away with the following definition:.  colon hydrotherapy (high colonics) eliminates from the bowel the accumulated waste material which may get absorbed.

Yuck.  Further investigation revealed that being "coloniced" meant having water, or other liquid, shot up your keester.  I even learned of coffee colonics.  (I hope they cooled it first.)

It didn't take any more research to convince me that I wasn't having any high--or low--colonics.  

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Day 63, July 21

Sex after fifty (and gasp) sixty, is tricky.  First it must be done in the dark.  I'm talking bat-cave dark.  This is imperative.  After all, who wants to look at sagging breasts and double stomachs? (And these are just my husband's).  I have not fared any better, given my cottage cheese thighs, dimpled buttocks, and ... well, you get the picture.  Then there are my crow's eyes, with wrinkles deep enough in which to lay pipe.

The dark makes it difficult to distinguish one body part from another.  Is that a tushie or a breast?  Once body parts are covered in multiple layers of fat, everything feels the same.

Finding a proper position is no easy matter either.  Given my recent hip surgery, my right side is tender and must be accommodated.  Then there's the problem of my breasts hanging in my mate's face.  With the texture and weight of two bags of wet sand, they are in danger of cutting off his breathing if I am on top.

Once we've settled in to a mutually comfortable position, we heave a sigh of relief.  "We've done it again," I whisper.

I needn't have bothered.  My beloved is fast asleep. 

Friday, July 20, 2012

Day 62, July 20

"Don't let the change of life get you down.  It's too hard to get back up."--Maxine.

As always, Maxine gets it right.  Unfortunately, though, I didn't heed her advice.  The change of life did get me down.  Once it had me there, it kicked me with steel-toed shoes.

Inch by inch, gasp by gasp, I pulled myself up, a feat made more difficult when you consider that I did it with bad feet, an arthritic hip, two stomachs, and breasts that felt like bags of wet sand.  And I did it despite the efforts of my loving family to keep me down.

Now, I'm up and ready to kick life in the teeth.  (Well, maybe I'll settle for parts lower.)

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Day 61, July 19

Just as with fashion and hairstyles, the decades if our lives are documented by food.   Comfort food was big in the 1950s.  The 60s and 70s gave way to natural foods, where everything had the texture of saw dust, smelled slightly musty, and looked like deer droppings. 

The 80s were marked by high fashion and sophisticated food.  This carried through to the early 90s,  By the mid 90s, we all decided to go organic.  The fastest way to tell if a food is organic is by the price.  If something costs more ten to twenty times more than its counterpart, it's probably organic. Of course these foods are untainted by preservatives.

By the time a woman reaches menopause, she doesn't want natural or organic.  She wants real food with real names that she can pronounce.  Exotic foods with unpronouncable names be damned.  I want steak.  Baked potatoes with real sour cream.  And cake that doesn't taste like sawdust.

Bring on the preservatives.  Women of a certain age welcome preservatives.  We know they will increase our shelf life.  At a time when our skin is drying up along with our insides, we need all the artificial help we can get.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Day 60, July 18

Just as we can trace history by lingerie styles, so can we document it by hair styles.  The 50s gave us tightly bound curls a la permanents.  In my mind, I can still smell the permanent solution.  It's a wonder I didn't lose my hair as well as fry my nostrils.  The early 60s gave way to the beehive.  The beehive was a helmet of hair, teased to within an inch of its life and then sprayed in place so that even a blast from a supersonic jet would not muss it.

The late 60s brought the natural look with long, straight hair as we all tried to emulate California girls.  When the 70s arrived, the natural look was in  full force.  This extended not just to the hair on our heads.  We were encouraged to let our arm pit hair grow long enough to braid.  (I could never abide this and eschewed this particular style dictate.)

By the 80s, we were slaves to such shows as DALLAS and DYNASTY.  Big hair was in.  Texas hair, some called it.  Of course we all wanted to look like Joan Collins and Linda Evans.   Princess Di was a trend-setter, so we copied her as well.

The 90s and into the new Millenium, we worked to have career hair.  This was a professional look, where we tried to look like men who looked like women.  Along about this time, someone told us that we should wax "down there."  Can you say "ouch?"  Yet another fashion I have ignored.

There you have it.  Sixty years as seen through hair.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Day 59, July 17

Women my age will most likely have stories to tell about their bras.  We recall the bullet bra of the 60s, where the cups were designed to give a cone-like shape to The Girls.   Stitched concentric circles meant that the cups never lost their shape.   Somewhere around the 70s, the natural bra came into vogue.   These provided so little support that I decided "Why bother?"

By the time the 80s rolled around, I was nursing my fourth baby and had gone through a number of nursing bras.  These little numbers provided easy access for eager mouths.   The flaps of my bra remained open most of the time.  Who could remember to fasten them up after being up all night with a hungry baby?

The 90s ushered in Victoria's Secret and the era of fantasy bras.  (The fantasy was that we thought if we wore their bras we would look like their models.)    By the time of the Millenium and beyond, I had given up the fantasy and was happy to find a bra that kept The Girls in place.  We were locked and loaded and ready for action.

Historians document history by citing political upheavals and unrest.  A woman better.  She records history by her underwear.

Monday, July 16, 2012

July 31

Day 58, July 16

Yesterday, we dissected the YPE (yearly pelvic exam).  It seems only fitting that we discuss mammograms today. 

For this procedure, we are, nce again, asked to undress, though only our upper halves.  A technician then takes our breasts and places them between two metal plates.

"Let me know if it hurts," the technician says.

Duh.  Does anyone actually believe that having elderly breasts squeezed between two cold metal plates isn't going to hurt?  Fortunately, I had prepared and had taken a half a dozen Vicodan before arriving.

While I doze in la-la land, the technician presses the plates together.  My breasts know they should hurt, but they are in la-la land with me.

"You can get dressed now."

The technician leaves the room.  I look down at my breasts.  Where, before they had only sagged, now they sagged in a flattened manner.

Ah, well.  They'll plump up again.   A carton of Ben & Jerry's will see to that.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Day 57, July 15

Few words are desigined to fill a woman with more terror than "yearly pelvic exam."  Of course, this is not the purview of menopausal women.  All women over 18 or so are subject to YPEs.  For us menopausers, though, this exam becomes an exercise in torture and humiliation.

First, there is the undressing part.  You are given a half gown that ties in back and a cocktail napkin to place over your lower half.  I don't know about you, but my lower half needs something bigger than a piece of paper roughly the size of a postage stamp to cover it.  Then we lie down on a vinyl mattress and adjust our feet into stirrups.  For those of us of a certain age, getting our feet in the stirrups is a feat in itself.  Just as my new hip (hip replacement) and I are making peace with each other, we are asked to get in a position that neither God nor nature intended.

I always have a dozen or so questions to ask my doctor.  However, I am put off by the fact that I'm addressing someone who has his head between my legs and is talking to my cervix.  The questions go right out of my menopausal mind, and I try not to flinch as an ice-cold instrument is inserted right up to my throat.

Doctor:  How have you been doing?

Me:  Okay, I guess.

Doctor:  Any problems?

Me:  Well, there's--

Doctor:  Good, good.  Now let's take a peek and see what we have here.

Let me assure you that he took more than a peek.  I venture to say that he got a real eyeful.

Yes, the YPE is not for the faint of heart.  But then neither is any part of menopause.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Day 56, July 14

Menopause provides daily--and nightly-humbling experiences.   Take, for example, my habit of sleeping only in my underwear.  Even the lightest weight pajamas or nightgown prove too hot for my over-heated body.

One night, I had cause to regret my lack of nightwear.  A noise at the front door roused me from sleep.  Concerned that something had taken my twenty-year-old daughter out at midnight, I opened the door to determine if her car was parked out front, as it normally is.  At that moment, our kitty, Harley, streaked out.

Without a backward glance, she ran across the front yard.  (Harley has been declawed, making it unsafe for her to be outside.)  Afraid to take the time to pull on clothes, I took off after her.  By this time, she had made her way across the street and taken refuge under a neigihbor's truck.

Barefoot and scantily-clad, I hurried across the street,  ignoring the prick of stones against my feet.   "Harley," I called softly.  "Come out here."

An unconcerned "meow" was her only response.

"Harley, get yourself out here now."  I kept my voice low, not wanting to wake the neighbors.. 

She ignored me.

I got to my knees and started to crawl under the truck.  Visions of being stuck under the vehicle taunted my mind.  I could see the morning headlines:  "Middle-aged woman found wedged beneath truck in her underwear."

I reached for Harley, who scampered away.  Finally, she strolled out of her own accord.  I scooped her up in my arms and retraced my steps, all the while scolding Harley.  When we reached home, I collapsed.  Meanwhile, Harley took up her customary place on a chair, uncaring what she had put me through.

No more midnight excursions for me.

Friday, July 13, 2012

Day 55, July 13

We all know the danger of coming between a mama bear and her cubs.  Mama bears are fiercely protective.  The same goes for the rest of us mamas.  It doesn't matter the age of our child.  When that child is threatened, we unsheath our claws and bare our teeth. 

When someone hurt our oldest son, my claws came out, my teeth (or fangs) were bared, and I was poised for attack.  Indeed, I would have attacked had I been given the opportunity.  As it was, the only thing we could do was hire a pitbull of a lawyer to protect our son and his boys..  That this son was 34 years old with children of his own mattered not a whit.  No one hurts one of my babies.  No one.  When I compared myself to a mama grizzly, Larry snorted.  "You're not a grizzly.  You're a volverine."  (The wolverine is reputed to be one of the most vicious mamals.)

So, where, you may rightfully ask is the menopause tie-in?

It's simple.  Age and menopause gave me the balls to do what my younger self would probably have shrunk from.  As I said, no one hurts my babies.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Day 54, July 12

If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.--Katherine Hepburn

I spent a lifetime obeying all the rules.  And, for the most part, I still do.  The trouble is, obeying all the rules got (and gets)  me nowhere.   I was passed over, passed by, and, for all intents and purposes, I had  passed on.  (Would anyone even notice if I had, I wondered.)

Does this sound like a bout of self-pity?  Maybe it is.  Mostly it's a wake-up call to women, those my age and those younger, to break a rule occasionally.

Menopause is a time to break out of old, self-defeating patterns.  Write the  novel you always wanted to.  Dye your hair red.  Stand up for yourself when your husband or boss or anyone else puts you down.

Look for the fun in things.  More, look for the fun in YOU.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Day 53, July 11

Do you ever talk with your body parts?  I do.  Of course I also talk to dead people, so talking to my body probably isn't that big of stretch.  The other day, I had a conversation with my breasts (The Girls).  This came as a result of looking at my naked body.  I don't suggest it for anyone past the age of 20.

Me:  What are you guys doing down there?  (They hung nearly to my waist.)

The Girls:  Just hanging around.

Me:  Well, couldn't you hang a bit closer to where you started?

The Girls:  This is what you get for not wearing a bra for so many years.  (This was said in a snarky tone.)  Okay.  They had me there.  I'd spent most of the 70s and a good portion of the 80s sans bra.

Me:  (Meekly)  I'm sorry.

The Girls:  You should be.

Well, there you have it.  My conversation with The Girls.  You'll probably be hearing more about them in days to come as they head toward my knees.  I'm trying to put a positive spin on it and decided that having them hang to my waist wasn't all bad.  At least they camouflaged my SS (second stomach).

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Day 52, July 10

In the Mormon Church, we have classrooms for nursery aged children, Primary children, youth (ages 12-18), and men.  We even have Relief Society for the women.  However we have no classrooms for MMWs (menopausal Mormon women).
I am feeling more than a little aggrieved at this.  Why are there no classrooms for the MMWs?  Could it be that we are once more being discriminated against?  I hate to think so, but the evidence says otherwise.

I can picture the classrooms now:  they will, of course, be tastefully appointed with a cluster of comfortable chairs; a chocolate fountain will be available, complete with tasty tidbits with which to dip in the chocolate; and, most importantly, the temperature will be set to a constant 62 degrees.  (I wanted to make it 60 degrees, but I bowed to pressure from those women who don't run as hot as I do.)

MMWs, make your voices heard.  Band together and storm your bishop's office.  For those of you who aren't Mormon, go to your ecclesiastical leader and make your wishes known.  Don't forget:  together, we can do anything.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Day 51, July 9

Our town, Loveland, Colorado has a great Parks and Recreation Program.  Classes offered include such things as macrame (I am craft-impaired), swimming with tots (been there, done that), and executing a will (which would be fine if the last word were husband).

But where are the classes for menopausal women?  In an effort to be helpful, I composed a syllabus of classes with the following titles:

How to survive hot flashes when eveyone around you is freezing
Beauty tips for double and triple chins
Facial hair:  wax, pluck, or laser
Vaginal dryness:  lubricate or medicate?
and, my favorite,
What to do if you've accidentally murdered your husband:  7 ways to dismember a body without ruining your manicure

I feel qualified to teach each of these.  Though I have not had hands-on experience with the last, I feel sure I could come up with some creative solutions.

Well, there you have it.  My take on P & R classes for menopausal women.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Day 50 July 8

Those of us old enough to have mothers of  a certain age may remember the girdles our mothers wore so proudly.  Every year, my mother faitihfully ordered two Playtex girdles. 

These were heavy-duty affairs, made of a rubbery material that was all but indestructible.  Getting in these garments required dexterity, strength, and a willingness to sacrifice all modesty for they required help to don.  After doing up a series of hooks and eyes, the girdle then had to be zipped at the side.   These were not panty girdles and so were worn over underwear or sans underwear.  Garters extended from the bottom of the girdle to hold up stockings.  These garters left deep impressions on the thighs, but no matter.

Today's "compression garments" are far kinder.  We have our choice of shapers, slimmers, and even booty augmentations.  (Although why anyone would want to add to their booty flumoxes me.)  Spanx is the newest in shapers and comes in all forms and  sizes.   Personally, I am too hot to wear anything I don't aboslutely have to, so I eschew these garments and let the flab fall where it will.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Day 49, July 7

I have never been a fan of soap operas, or, more politically correct, daytime dramas.  However, their titles have always intrigued me. With the graying of America, it seems we might rename some of the soaps to make them more relevant.


What about you?  Do you have a favorite soap you'd like to rename?  Use your imagination.  Could DAYS OF OUR LIVES become DAZE OF OUR MINDS?  Once you get started, this is a great way to pass the time.

Indulge me with one more:  ALL MY CHILDREN could be ALL MY CHILBLAINS. 

Okay.  I'll stop.  I'm getting silly.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Day 48, July 6

Have you reached the "ma'am" stage?  I reached it some time ago.  Being a "ma'am" means you are treated with a kind of deferential respect.  I'd appreciate that more if that deferential respect didn't contain a look of pity as well.  The pity comes from the other person's acknowledgment that you are past your prime.

Actually, my prime was past eons and eons ago, but once more, I digress.

We "ma'ams" need a boost every now and again.  My sister related, with a kind of embarrassed pleasure, that a man had tried to pick her up upon a recent trip to Las Vegas.  I congratulated her and told her she "still had it." 

Unfortunately, not all of us get that kind of boost.  I don't "still have it" and am resigned to relying on my underwire bra for any boost in my life.  Come to think of it, that's not all bad.   I can take my bra off and let it and the girls have a rest.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Day 47, July 5

Have you ever noticed that workout clothes are designed only for women who do not need to work out?  Several years back, my daughter Alanna and I made a pact to meet at the gym each morning.  Alanna arrived, cute and perky, in a jogging bra and spandex shorts.  I arrived, uncute and decidedly unperky, in a baggy shirt and equally baggy pants.  Together, we rode the bikes, sweated on the treadmill, and pushed weights.

Alanna's workout clothes proclaimed "I'm young, I'm fit, I'm beautiful."  Mine proclaimed "Over the hill and trying to deny it."

And have you figured out VICTORIA'S SECRET?  If not, I'll let you in on it.  Come on, lean in closer.  Here it is:  VICTORIA'S SECRET is that women over 21 can't wear her clothes.  I'd amend that to include that women who are larger than a size 4 can't wear her clothes.

It's a conspiracy, I tell you.

We menopausal women would be more likely to work out if we didn't have to resort to wearing our husband's T-shirts and pants in order to find clothes that fit!

While I wait for designers to catch on, I'm going to indulge in a piece of cheesecake. 

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Day 46, July 4

I finally figured out why Menopausal Women are weary, especially Mormon Menopausal Women.   We MMWs are tired because of the hymns we sing.

What, you protest?  Hymns make us tired?  Never.  They inspire.  They uplift.  They motivate.

Let's examine the evidence:

First we are CALLED TO SERVE.   At the same time, we are told to CHOOSE THE RIGHT.  Then we're asked HAVE I DONE ANY GOOD.  If that weren't enough, we are reminded to IMPROVE THE SHINING MOMENTS and to PUT YOUR SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL.  When we protest that WE HAVE WORK ENOUGH TO DO, we are reprimanded that WE ARE ALL ENLISTED.  Just when we think we're getting it right, we are given the directives LET US ALL PRESS ON and I'LL GO WHERE YOU WANT ME TO GO.  Finally, lest we are tempted to rest upon our laurels, we are instructed to PRESS FORWARD, SAINTS and SCATTER SUNSHINE (be sure to BYOB--Bring Your Own Basket for the sunshine).

Whew!  I'm weary just typing the titles of these lofty hymns with their equally lofty sentiments.

If you'll excuse me now, MY TIME IS FAR SPENT and I'm searching for WHERE CAN I TURN FOR PEACE.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Day 45, July 3

A friend gave me a refrigerator magnet bearing a picture of three elderly women in bathing suits.  The caption reads, "I still have all the same parts--they're just lower."

That describes me perfectly.  I still have my brains, my boobs, and my booty; they've just taken a nosedive.  My IQ has taken a definite dip over the last 30 years or so.  My boobs are now in danger of touching my knees.  And my booty, well, let's just say that it, like my ears, is hanging low.

Mostly, I'm all right with these changes.  I miss being smart, but I'm coming to terms with it.  I figure I make up for the descrease in intelligence  by an increase in feistiness.  As for my boobs and booty, what's a woman to do?    Maybe I'll do stand-up comedy ... if only my feet didn't hurt so much.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Day 1

Day 44, June 2

We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.

Robert Fulghum

The friend who sent this to me said it described her and her husband "to a T."  It does for Larry and me as well. 

We complement each other in all sorts of weird ways.  He is partial to cable's cooking channel and I like the 80s movie DELTA FORCE..  (No one kicks butt like Chuck Norris.)    He speaks in public but doesn't write.  I write but don't speak in public.  And so on.

Our children consider us weird beyond belief andtbelieve we are but one step away from "the home."  Our son Hyrum taunts us with the threat that he will put us in a home with "imitation gruel."  I'd be more scared if I thought that we'd live that long.  The way we're going, it's doubtful we'll make it that long.

One thing our weirdness has done is to convince our loving offspring that they do NOT want to move home.  Ever.  Homelessness is preferrable to living with their weird parents.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

Day 43, July 1

Much like pregnant women, menopausal women develop cravings.  My particular craving is for NOODLE's brand buttered noodles.  It has it all:  carbs and fat.  I can forego salt; I can even forego sweets.  But I absolutely crave carbs, especially carbs soaked in butter. 

It is one of life's ironies that at a time when a woman can least afford to indulge in extra calories that she is so tempted to overeat.  What an unkind trick to place upon already over-burdened menopausal women.  I'd rail at fate, but I know my rantings will make no differene.

So we exercise more.  Or we try to.  The other day, I decided to try a few jogging steps.  My right foot went down, and my new hip said, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I quickly apologized to my new hip and promised not to do anything so foolish again.  It forgave me, and we turned our jog into a slow walk, the best I can manage.

Ah, menopause, what cruelties have you in store for me next?