Just yesterday I was “normal”, whatever that means. But truly, I was. I am sure of it, I think. I mean … it feels like it was just yesterday, right? C’mon foggy brain, you can do this. You can remember. Perhaps “normal” is or was or should be overrated anyway. Does it even matter? YES! YES it does matter. Hence this diary. Stay on task foggy brain. Seriously. You can do this.
Let’s throw out a few definitions before we begin.
Diary: the telling of a tale. To admit to something, come to a realization, to be enlightened enough or have that “something” be important enough to write it down for the entire universe to see. (OK … melodramatic and yes, quite daunting)
Mad: as in angry, yes, but also crazy, freaked out, disturbed, maniacal, borderline psycho and quite often a complete nutcase swinging from the vines of emotionalism
Menopausal: the bane of aging, the bewitching of body, mind and spirit, the unfair continuum of the curse of menses that follows us to our graves (and perhaps drags us there kicking and screaming in our maddened state of existence)
Woman: Simply put … NOT man. Doubtful a man could even handle any of the above.
As I was saying, just yesterday I was normal. And then, I was not. Just like that. I blinked, snapped my fingers, turned my head and “Normal” snuck out the door. That’s ok. I am not one who strives to be like everyone else anyway. So, in an attempt to embrace my un-normalness, I reach for that proverbial superhero cape (it’s a deep, sensuous red in my mind), sling it around my shoulders, bend over slightly due to the new found pain in my hip (bone loss perhaps?) and don that sucker like nobody’s business. I stand there in my closet with my hands on my hips … deep in my own super hero imagination. Why did I come in here? There was something specific I came looking for. It wasn’t clothing or shoes, I’m pretty sure. I drop my arms from their best ever Wonder Woman place on my hips (Ouch! That right hip still hurts). To preserve brain power, I walk out of the closet none the wiser as to why I entered it in the first place. Foggy Brain = 1. Normal Me = 0. I lose again.
The numbers on the clock at night burn a hole in my head. I watch them like a creepy peeping Tom … eyes wide open and a weird look on my face. Interesting, those digital numbers. Do you know which numbers on a digital clock have the same amount of lighted lines as the number itself? I raise my hand as if I am a 1st grader …. “Oh Oh, I know the answer. Pick me! Pick me!” The number 4 and the number 5. Aha! All that creepy staring is good for something!
I watch the clock as the 2, as in A.M., turns into a 3. Only a couple hours left to attempt sleep. I give up trying. My zombie self rises as if it is coming up out of the depths of the Earth. Another all-nighter, which also means another wrecked day of walking around in a daze. Thank you, Menopause. This means so much.
Are there calories in the air? If I sniff something delectable will I gain weight? I’m a trainer, a fitness trainer. I’ve worked hard to maintain a lean, muscular physique. Not to worry … I still have it despite the capital M in menopause. If you know me personally, don’t roll your eyes when you read this, but my body is changing. No, it’s not drastic (yet) but I can tell, and quite frankly that’s all that matters. Primary areas of concern that have been affected by the capital M: abdominal, hips, thighs, butt. Instead of being the separate, wonderful entities that they are (ahem, or rather, WERE), they have begun to appear amalgamated into more of an amorphous single unit. It’s like they each lifted their Power Rangers rings, fist bumped them together while screaming, “Power Rangers Unite!” Each area that has been affected by the capital M has brought along a suitcase for the journey … filled with those 2 sexy figure killers that start with the letter C. Cellulite and Crepey skin. Again, Lady M, job well done. This sucker punch is the loveliest of it’s kind. I applaud you.
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Some of the running dialogue in my head … and “M”s sneering responses … making a mockery of what has become of me (at her own manipulative hand. I hate her!)
Me: They were here just a minute ago … my reading glasses! M: They are on your head.
Me: My keys. Not in my purse. Not on the counter. I’m late! M: Haha! They are in the ignition.
Me: Sure, I can meet you for coffee! M: No. You have a job, remember?
Me: Let me put my shoes on real quickly. M: Be careful. You now fall over standing on one foot.
Me: I can’t wait to go running. M: Do you hear that clicking sound? Is it your knees, spine, hips or all of the above? And … make sure there’s a restroom always close by!
Me: How old am I? Oh, I’m 45. M: No you’re not. You’re 47. Don’t be so flighty.
Me: There was a point to this story. M: Yes, and you’ve forgotten it like you do many things.
Me: I love you but I want to murder you. M: Mood swings, have we?
Me: The food on my plate looks blurry. M: Reading glasses. They are on top of your head.
Me: Please just leave me alone!!!! M: I thought you said you were lonely.
Me: I want ______ (fill in the blank). No I don’t. Yes I do. M: If made it so that you have no idea what you want anymore.
Me: I’m just so tired. M: You just woke up. I love we get to spend all night hanging out!
Me: Give me my coffee and no one gets hurt! M: You are very serious and could end up on the news this evening. Not to worry, I’m responsible but I’ll let you take the fall.
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It’s blazing hot in here. I remember watching my grandmother pick up anything that she could use as a makeshift fan, wave that fan around her face and say, in her sweet, Southern twang, “Ewwwww, Lordy, Lordy. I’m havin’ me a tropical heat waaa-aave!” Remember the sexy red super hero cape I slung around my shoulders? Well, it disguises itself. It’s actually the Villain, not the Super Hero. It takes the form of boiling heat that creeps up my back, waving its hot fiery edges up my spine. Once it gets to about shoulder height, the cape of fire wraps itself around the front of my body, hovers there long enough to make me miserable and then swooshes up my face, leaving sweat all over my brow and escaping like a thief in the night out of my skull. I’m sure that my eyes have turned to flaming hot laser beams and if I opened my mouth, dragon flames would exit from within and scorch anyone or anything in sight. M …. go on with your bad, hot self, because of course, we know you will, especially after we’ve put on make up to cover up the strange skin tone we now have and are giving a presentation in front of a room full of people. Lady M …. or shall I call you “Your Hotness” this is not remotely funny, but always ill-timed and has mean girl tendencies. I have a mind to strangle you once and for all, but it just makes me too hot to think about following through.
I’m freezing! I need a blanket. A thick, heavy blanket. Yes. I realize it is the dead of summer. But you aren’t me, so shut your trap and bring me that blanket before I murder you. And be sure to keep one eye open while you are sleeping too, because you are just under my skin all day, every day and I just can’t take you anymore. You would think that any of the excess adipose tissue (look it up, people. I’m not explaining it to you) that the capital M has brought into my life would help insulate me. No indeed. It’s not going to work in my favor at all …. ever. So I remain cold. Like, old lady cold. Like, grandma wrapped up in a sleeping bag (okay, there’s a name for those blankets, but for the life of me I can’t think of it), wearing thick wool socks PLUS slippers and a cute little hat she knitted herself, sitting in her cloth chair that is sitting in front of a floor heater cold. FREEZING! But all I have to do is wait a few minutes and the sexy, red Villain Cape will appear and burn me to smithereens.
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Do I have to get out of bed? Yes, yes, I know I have to wash the sheets because there’s a sweat ring that may become permanent if left unattended. But I really don’t think I have it in me today to even greet the world, much less these people who happen to live in the same house as I. Who are these people anyway? Not even coffee has the power in its “drip, drip” melody or its sweet, nutty scent to drag me up out of the abyss, pull me into the shower and the whole rigmarole it takes to be presentable to the world and to these people. I’ve decided I’m not adulting today, or mommying, or wifeying, or trainering, or friending, or Mimi-ing. (oh yeah … I forgot to tell you that I am, indeed, a grandmother). The world seems like a dim, dreary, black hole place today. I just want to stay under the covers, that is, until the sexy red Villain Cape attacks me again, and again, and again.
I don’t know why. Stop asking me! No, I’m not all right. OK, maybe I am just fine but I’m pretty sure the world is coming to an end. The sadness is overcoming me. Tears. Tears. Tears. I couldn’t get the top off of the jar of peanut butter today. Tears. The World is coming to an end! I think I can see the imprint of my belly button in this tank top. Tears. The World is coming to an end! We ran out of Puffs tissues; the drinking glass slipped out of my hand and broke into a million, zillion, kabillion pieces; I exercised 3 days this week instead of 5; I get hot flashes while I’m trying to enjoy a bath; this TV commercial about dogs in shelters is just way too much for me to handle … will no one rescue them? Tears. Tears. Tears. The World is coming to an end! Menopause, I have to admit, your flare for the dramatic is somewhat admirable. Always in character, you are.
You must die. There’s nothing more to be said or done. (Dear Reader, do not get your panties in a bundle with the vulnerability I risk to tell you how I FEEL when you know good and well that often times you feel the exact same way). I know that murder is frowned upon, but desperate times make for desperate measures. Menopause has decreed that in most cases, murder is acceptable. Perhaps you are the idiot driver who nearly pushed me off the side of the road. You must die. Or maybe you are the young, dumb 20-something waltzing around in the gym (like you even know what you are doing or could ever take me in an arm wrestling match). You must die. Oh, you are the teeny tiny clasp on my favorite bracelet and you decide to break causing the millions of beads in my favorite bracelet to scatter themselves across the globe, never to be found again? Yes, you too must die. Family members? Well, I’d have to think long and hard about your demise at my own bare hands. I may allow you to live, though my rage is piping hot in this very moment, so I’d steer clear if I were you. The squeaky door hinge that for the life of me sounds louder and louder and more annoying by the second. I will single-handedly break down that door, rip it from its noisy hinge and murder it on site. You must die. And I alone shall be the last woMAN standing!
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Here’s a bit of advice …. you may want to tread lightly around the Mad Menopausal Woman. I would if I were you. She loves you yet loathes you all at the same time. Her life is upside down and she knows full well how cray cray she is (gentle hint here to NOT remind her!). She’ll get it figured out, at least, I know I will, because I’m a fighter like that. Eventually I’ll take control of all the things I CAN control and I will learn to accept the things I cannot. Oh, I’m not there yet on the “accepting” part. (Note the previous “You must die” paragraph above). There’s still too much fight in me (and rage, and angst, and deep seeded anger, and sadness, and exhaustion, and sleepless nights, and moments of lucidity surrounded by moments of NON lucidity, and confusion mixed with clear headed confidence, hopelessness mixed with resolve for experiencing brighter days ahead). Let’s just say it’s all a work in progress. Best to ride the waves alongside me, but mind you, I’d keep a little distance. Please be patient and kind even though I am NOT always such. Don’t badger me and MOST IMPORTANTLY, Do Not, by any means laugh at me or make a mockery of how I feel. (Note again the “You must die” paragraph above). Love me through the good, the bad and the ugly until we make it safely to the other side.
So until further notice, I will disrespectfully remain yours truly …
~Mad, Menopausal Woman
Michele Sodon & the Fit Life 