In Which Kanga Attempts To Harness Her Aging Inner Goddess

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Hello, Lone Reader! You’re here for a treat today!

If you are prone to fits of side-eye or your tummy gets queasy at the mere mention of the female reproductive system, then this post is not for you.

If you like a good train wreck, then by all means, as you were.

I am 44 years old. In dog years, that’s 308, which I feel most days. There’s a saying I always misremember that goes, You’re only as old as the person you feel, and even he says he feels like a multi-centenarian more often as not. It’s a charmed life chez us, believe me.

Being 44 puts me that much closer to the hormonal nightmare called perimenopause.

In fact, it has the word menopause in it: perimenopause. Premenopause. You’re telling me that there’s an after?

I want to be happy that I am coming to the end of my reproductive shelf life. I really do. I also think tubal ligation should be an option in conjunction with the removal of one’s uterus. Think of all the money and trees to be saved? There would be no need for such modern devices as the Diva Cup, which I could never get my head around because who the hell wants to mess around with internal cups at that time of the month? Never in my life have my monthly visitors been light enough for me to even consider it.

The only reason why I use a period tracker app at this stage of my life is for statistical purposes and maybe science, for my doctor’s edification. I can’t plan my life around anything except having a bag of the thickest paper pads without wings to hand. There is no such thing as a light day. When I was 12 years old and my late paternal grandmother was visiting from the UK, her proper English lady mask was loosened long enough to joke that women may as well be back in diapers during that time (those times) of the month.

Gran was an incredibly wise woman. I should have talked to her more and hermitted less when she was around.

Today, my daughter learned a whole new purple-tinged vocabulary while listening to me holler and curse in the bathroom. I’d like to apologize to anyone within 50 feet of the house, as well. By the time I was ready to face the day, the floor immediately in front of the toilet looked like it belonged in the pilot episode of Dexter. No joke. Nothing touched the pad that I had strategically stuck in place last night, but you can bet as soon as the panties dropped so did everything else.

I’m also convinced that my body can tell when a night in a hotel with the whitest linens imaginable is on the horizon. If I can remember to do it, I need to wash a dark bath sheet and bring it with me tonight on my 36-hour trip to Toronto, because I don’t think I have enough coins in my pocket to cover the damage deposit on a $600-a-night (corporate rate, generously comped by a third-party) room.

I am too old for this shit. My best childbearing years are long behind me, and for lands’ sakes I had a tubal immediately following the twins’ c-section birth. This technically should have made my uterus a superfluous and nuisance organ like my as-yet-intact gall bladder (which was supposed to come out after my first child was born in 1997) and my golf-ball sized tonsils, which are giving me a comparable amount of grief as I muddle through life with sleep apnea.

I say, Enough!

Whatever my sins, the wages have been paid and twice their double. My queendom for day surgery and recovery in Varadero. Everything is NOT awesome. My two large dogs are howling for a trip to the glue factory. It turns out that for Midol to work optimally, you need to start taking it 5-6 days prior to the first day of your period. Please, refer to my previous mention of the pointlessness of using a period tracker app at this stage of my life.

Indulge me, will you, as I spontaneously break into song?

 

 

God, this video is awful. My moustache is also much less impressive than that of old Engelbert, thanks to my fractious hormones.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Perimenopause means my brain and other sundry parts are operating at the speed of a newborn’s first crawl while everything below my bloated waistline is on a conveyor belt bound for hell.

I don’t want to be half-measures at anything, Universe. It’s all in, or nothing at all.

Got it?

Good.

So glad we had this little chat.

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