More like almost hell.
I know I’m not in hell because if I were in hell I would be experiencing the Inferno-esque thermo-nuclear changes my body is throwing at me while a man followed me around explaining to me I’m doing the hot flash thing all wrong. Or that it was just all in my head and that maybe I was just being a bit too sensitive. And my life would be an endless loop some random dude who continually said, “Well, actually…”
So I know I’m not in hell.
But it appears I am lingering in some sort of purgatory. Neither here, nor there. One foot in, one foot out of this never-ending loop of hormones.
At least in hell you know you’re there for the duration.
There’s a tendency to poke fun of women at this time of life. And you should trust me when I tell you, you’re taking your life into your hands. It’s a bit like poking an angry bear. But, oh! The things we can mock! The constant fanning and complaining! The rage! The libido that shrivels up until it falls out of your uterus one night when you’re sleeping! The crying over a car commercial one minute and hurling your size fucking tiny clothes that are never going to fit again onto the bed. Oh yes, it’s all fodder for the funny isn’t it?
This ride through anti-puberty is no cup of tea. No picnic. I mean, it should be a CELEBRATION. It should be, ‘hey, no more worrying about an unplanned pregnancy. I have brought forth two lives. I am done. Now let’s rock n roll.”
But oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no.
Why is it such a pain in the ass? Here are just a few things I can no longer do while I’m spontaneously combusting here in hormone purgatory …
Pack lightly. Because the wild swings of internal thermometer settings means I need everything from a winter parka to a bikini at any given time.
Look at, think about, or come within five feet of bread without gaining sixteen pounds between sitting down at the table and getting up.
Blow dry my hair, even on the cool setting, without sweating like Rocky Balboa running up the steps of Philadelphia City Hall.
Sleep with a duvet. Sleep without a duvet. Sleep in general.
Have a conversations that do not include, “Is it hot in here? Are you hot? Is it me? Are you hot?”
Google any kind of medical symptoms because every symptom, from minor sinusitis to major elephantitis, is, it would appear, a side-effect of peri-menopause.
Go anywhere without some sort of jerry rigged self-fanning device.
Enjoy a hot beverage without sitting near an open window.
Read the news without getting into a righteous rage and furiously typing angry things to strangers then deleting them.
Wear sleeveless tops because Jesus, bat wings? Really???
I don’t know how long I’m going to be stuck here. Could be months. Could be years. Jesus, don’t let it be years. Please don’t let it be years.
Do you know how difficult it is to go about your daily life when you want to stick your head in the freezer, tear a phone book in half, and hurl all your size fucking tiny clothes on the bed because they’re never going to fit again because you looked at bread?
So, dear readers, save a prayer for the woman of a certain age that you know who might just be walking a tightrope between spontaneous combustion and freezing.
Is it hot in here? Are you hot?
Is it me?