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?

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.

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.

Why?

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!

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?

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.

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.

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.