Menopausal: To Be Or Not To Be 

Lise Liddell © 2014 

Apparently, menopause is not always a once in a lifetime experience. After going through “the change,” The Fertile Myrtle in you can rise phoenix-like from your ashen ovaries prompting emergency runs to Walgreens for “sanitary products,” as the blood sucking marketing vampires have so insultingly named them. 

Two years ago my doctor ran a blood test on me. 

“You’re in menopause,” he said. 

Six months later my period was back.  He gave me another test. 

“You’re out of menopause,” he said. 

A year later Aunt Flo has been a no-show and I’m back at my doctor’s for the same test. 

“You’re back in menopause,” he informs. 

Can a person get arrested for screaming, “Duh, Dude,” at their doctor? I have the urge to snatch my chart from him and eat it whole, clipboard and all. Instead, I bite the shit outta my lip. It swells and pulsates, but I suppress the menopausal gargoyle fuming in my uterus. 

This yoyo hormone syndrome wouldn’t be so insufferable if it weren’t handcuffed to its evil twin, dementia. 

“Crap. I’m having a flat shot,” I pronounce to my living room as I a hurl my purse and bag of groceries on the floor to rip every stich of clothing off my spontaneously combusting body. 

A flat shot?  A snap shot? A flash stop? A stop flash?  Fuck, it’s a hot flash. Shouldn’t I know after living through nine billion of ‘em? 

At least hot flashes give me an excuse to be naked.  Growing up nudity was forbidden in my family.  We were all born wearing long underwear and parkas.  Being naked was as sinister as being communist. 

Now I’m on the floor digging into my grocery bag like a stray dog in the garbage outside the Whataburger next to my yoga studio.  My tail bone is wagging. If Dad could see this he’d flip. 

I estimate my temperature is 1762 degrees. It doesn’t matter if that’s Celsius or Fahrenheit. When my body starts having a mind of its own I give it a piece of my irrational mind:  cold Pino Grigio and Ruffles Potato chips, i.e. booze and salt.  I snag them and run for the kitchen - boobs bouncing and sweat beads flying. I rip open the chip bag, grab a corkscrew, pop the cork, pour, slurp, and munch. All within 2 minutes. 

I’m a new woman. 

So ladies, if a blood test indicates you’re menopausal, beware. You might get fertile again. And unless you’re Sarah in the Bible, after that you’ll get menopausal again. (Which is worse: repeated menopause or pregnancy at age 110?) 

Now I’m going to make myself a batch of vodka and soy sauce popsicles.  And don’t tell me that vodka doesn’t freeze. 

I’ll bloody well make it freeze.