Earlier this week, I received the exciting news that I have begun menopause. A standing ova-a-tion; it is the final curtain call for ovulation. Taking its last bow…strutting and fretting its hour upon the stage…and then is heard no more…It is Angie’s Terminal Ovum. Estrogen has left the building. But enough with my witty puns…on to the inevitable questions: How will this revelation actually change my life? What clarification must be explored concerning the event? And how do I pay homage to my failing ovaries?
Going through The Change will actually change very little about my day-to-day functioning. I will still have legitimate excuses, backed by valid studies, to be a royal bitch. The source of the bitchiness, however, will shift from PMS symptoms to menopausal mood swings. Not that I must justify my bitchiness, but having context, clarity, and perspective, based on research, is comforting. With no guilt whatsoever, I can continue to dole out harsh criticism of others, including calling people vile names; go into maniacal rants for no apparent reason; and display a melancholy demeanor when it suits me. And wait, that’s not all. No calendaring major events, like vacations and sexual intercourse, around menses. No buying tampons, Pamprin, or sanitary napkins (that term is just WRONG in so many ways), and no more high heating bills! With my own internal greenhouse effect, I AM summer, year round.
To make clear my condition, please know that I am not in menopause, which seems to point to me as the culprit. My ovaries have failed me, thus I am the victim. Simple semantics, I know, but it’s my story and I do not want to be hailed the perpetrator. Truth be known, my ovaries have done not one nice thing for me in 44 years. They have been sparse and lazy with no drive nor motivation even when over stimulated with copious amounts of synthetic hormones. My ova have had four decades to lounge around in my ovaries, stirring occasionally to double me over writhing in pain mid month. The useless bastardettes would send mixed signals to my uterus, bless her heart, who would be so confused she didn’t know whether to run the play or drop punt. Now, the few ova I have left, old and withered, still slumbering, will weakly tap, tap, tap on my ovarian wall in their death throws. Karma.
When I heard the glorious news regarding my condemned corpuscles, I figured I had two choices…take to bed or throw a party. Duh, like I even spent a nanosecond making my decision. So, the planning of the menopause-themed soiree commenced. My FSH was going up in style. I was already sporting a firm 65, when most young, fertile women only peaked at 33. I was well into the ballgame, and it was time to party!
On the party menu is a red velvet cake with the following etched in butter cream icing on top: “Ding dong the witch is dead.” Drinks for the evening will be Bearded Ladies and Flaming Sambucas. Guests will be given a blanket and a paper fan, and the thermostat will be set at 80 so everyone can experience simulated hot flashes. A sign in the front yard will greet the party patrons touting “Welcome to Death Roe.” Music selections will include: Hot Child in the City, Gonna Make You Sweat, and Fat Bottom Girls. Yes, we will celebrate extra room in the bathroom cabinet with vigor, and at the close of the evening, I will deliver the following eulogy to memorialize my last, thankless egg:
Ode to the Ova
Hark, tiny eggs! So small, yet bold
Your demise; however, has been foretold
Irritating and snappy every 28 days,
Follicles now explode in your final phase.
Farewell to the Crimson Tide,
No more white pants in the closet hide.
No more stain removal to take to task.
Body ablaze, what ‘tis the thermostat set passed?
Wingeth pads…Super…Maxie…absorbeth nil.
Hormones now come in the form of a pill.
Night sweats and hot flashes I sing
But, Oh Cramp, where is thy sting?