I have never had the urge to write poetry. Truth be told, I don’t even like poetry. But lately, I have the urge to write and perform poetic monologues. I’m a humorist, not a Beatnik! I don’t even OWN bongos. Although, I do dress in black a lot … but it’s slimming and I’ve lived in New York. Anyway, I blame estrogen for this. I obviously have gone around the perimenopausal bend. The next thing you know, I’ll be dropping acid and driving cross-country.
Hey, it’s not like I wanted to get to this point. I’ve tried it all. I eat well. I’m so “Paleo”that I might as well hunt and kill my own mastodon. I exercise. I ride my stationary bike the length of the Appalachian Trail. I see a chiropractor and I take every vitamin that GNC sells. I have also mediated, been mindful and done yoga. There are benefits to all of this of course. I’m so healthy my doctor has begun asking me for ID and I don’t hyperventilate at the thought of trying on bathing-suits anymore.
The problem is that all of this healthy living doesn’t regulate my wonky hormones. PMS is bad enough when you get it a few days per month; getting a few days per month without it is like a whole new ring of Hell. No matter what I do, I still have an emotional breakdown whenever yet ANOTHER team decides to make a bar cart on Flea Market Flip. Really? Is there nothing else they could make from that 19th Century hay sorter? I know what you’re thinking. Just for the record, I’ve tried all the traditional things too. Prozac anyone? Let’s just say that while I may not do much with my libido, I do like having one.
So, before I become romantic comedy’s answer to Allen Ginsberg, I have decided to go see *insert ominous music* the menopause doctor. I know what this means. It means that 1) I need to finally make the call and cancel my subscription to Seventeen magazine, like NOW 2) I’m contemplating playing around with my hormones which is really scary! Let’s face it, no one has ever said, “You’re in such a fun mood! You must be getting your period!”
What if they give me the wrong mix and I fall in love with a fire hydrant? Or vote for Donald Trump? Or start writing and performing Beat poetry? So many things could go wrong. If my boobs get any bigger, I’ll tip over! I could get cravings. What if I get them for things like “special sauce” or wine in a box? No! Not that!
Okay, it’s time to woman up and be brave. The sad truth is that even being a Big Mac eating bongo player would be better than hot flashes and mood swings. Wish me luck with the menopause doctor. Actually, wish us all luck, honey.