Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Tidal wave

Wanna hear something really sick and twisted? Yeah? Thought you might, you rascals! OK, here it goes. Ready? Three, two, one...

I miss my period.

Believe me, I'm as shocked as you are. I never ever in a million years thought I would ever confess to such a ridiculous thing. After all, there are tons of media sources out there telling us we don't need our periods. We can stay on birth control for years without a break with no consequences. We have options. We can be FREE!

Sounds good in theory, doesn't it?

Here's the deal: A few months back I had to take the Ol' Lady Bidness into the shop for some detailing, and the doc suggested that while I had 'er up on the lift, she could throw in this quick little treatment that would leave my goods intact but pretty much bring an end to the Red Tide, at least for a few years, by which time I would have completed the transition to cronehood and be done with it for good.

Cool, right? How could that be a bad thing? The Tide had never been much of an issue until recently, but it had started become increasingly erratic and, um, insistent, The chance to knock it down a few pegs appealed to me. And think of the positive effect on the environment, what with my decreased usage of paper products and all. Think of the trees! Win-win, right?

In the beginning, it seemed too good to be true. The additional treatment didn't make recovery any more (gulp) gross than it would have been anyway. I kept my eyes on the prize, and a scant six weeks later I was clean as a whistle. I was thrilled! New white panties for everyone!


Until the first day I felt compelled to punch a hole through someone's larynx for no good reason. I looked at my trusty Tide chart, as I always do, to see if I could pin this solar flare on my ovaries, or if I was finally losing my mind for realz.

Uh-oh. I flipped back and forth through the months, counted forward from the last recorded flood over and over, but the Tide had been toying with me over the last year and I couldn't find any consistent pattern.

The awful truth broke over me like someone breaking a fake egg over my head on the playground. Sure, my period had virtually stopped, but my ovaries continued merrily squirting globs of hormones into my bloodstream as if nothing ever happened and I now had no way to rationalize predict my "Fuck All Y'all" days. No longer could I claim it was PMS. Now I was just an unpredictable bitch.

And that's why I miss the Tide. At least then I would have an alibi when I find myself fighting the urge to grab my toothbrush and credit card, set fire to the house, and flee for the wild.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

1 comment:

  1. Saw your blog on Bev's page and squealed when I saw this post. I learned that I was going through perimenopause the week after I turned 40. A week after I had made the bold declaration that age didn't matter because I was by god 40 years old and still pretty friggin' fabulous. The universe put my ass back in my place with the quickness. Aunt Flo came and went with no rhyme or reason until apparently she decided to pack her bags and leave town for good. I haven't had one since Christmas yet I still threaten to slice off my husband's balls with a rusty box cutter once a month. Go figure.

    Solidarity, my sister.


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