It’s hard to believe in God when you’re in menopause
An open letter to God:
I’m trying awfully hard, Lord, but it’s not going well. I have actually been on my knees, hands folded on the bed, but you seem to be distracted these days. What’s up? Sure, there are probably cooler things for you to do, like unleashing your Mighty Power in the form of hurricanes, tsunamis as well as volcanoes that keep Brits in their own airspace.
But please take this time to listen and I won’t bother you again.
It’s about this curse. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t turn your head, now. I’m talking about my own version of flashes, floods, fire and brimstone. I am talking about the change.
The change, what a ridiculous name. It’s like you’re changing your clothes or your hairstyle. Or you’re changing into a beautiful butterfly after years as a bug.
I was actually looking forward to menopause, not having Freddy Krueger visiting me every month to slash up my uterus from the inside out. Ah, menopause, I thought, I’ll be free to have sex anytime I want it, whenever I want it. I can brave the golf course without trying to explain to the guys why I need a ten minute break on the sixth hole. I can wear white again.
But you were laughing at me, weren’t you? Lulling me into this false sense of security.
You just couldn’t give it up, could you?
Ten years of bloating, sweating, chilling and unexpected surprises which sometimes went on for months. Let’s see, what else? Weight gain of six hundred pounds for three weeks out of four. Panic attacks that leave me swooning like a Southern belle. Crying jags worthy of a soap opera star. I could go on.
What’s the deal? Is this the thanks I get for bringing three children into the world and sacrificing most of my paycheque to tennis lessons, after school programs and sensible lunches? Not to mention dealing with a teenager going through her own demonic possession during my special time of life.
Why isn’t there, like, a tap a woman can turn off when the children are birthed? Or a zipper that you can just pull down and rip out the uterus. Oh, wait, doctors do that. Never mind.
And what about the guys? The guys just go on, exchanging their hockey sticks and beer for golf and rye whiskey. Or puttering in the basement and drinking beer. They seem to actually get younger as they get older, while we bloat and shrivel up like week old bananas.
Let’s make a deal. I promise to do two decades of charity work, to even travel to some distant land to help my fellow womankind. Or to go on Survivor, because after the last ten years, I am sure I could win that.
Please Lord, I am ready now. I am through my initiation into old age. I am ready to embrace the wrinkles and the sunspots, the lawn bowling and the bridge club, if only you will send a message.
Please Lord, calm the uterus.
Thanks for listening.