Marcia Kester Doyle
I’m far from being Snow White when it comes to the “change of life”, especially now that the seven dwarfs of menopause have moved in. More often than not, I resemble the wicked queen with my rapid mood swings. “Mirror Mirror on the wall, who is the meanest of them all?” Even these dwarfs know better than to hang around when I’m having a lousy day. If I had a poison apple in my hand right now, I’d throw it at them.
Who are the little buggers I’m talking about? These seven, miserable dwarfs:
GRUMPY: Overnight I’ve been transformed into a grumpy old person, which makes me hard to please on any given day. The sun is too bright, the kids are too loud, and my fiber pills are not working. Unless you’re going to surprise me with a juicy burger and a chocolate milkshake, then leave me alone.
SWEATY: Ceiling fans on warp speed and an A/C unit set at 65 degrees is STILL not enough to stop the sweating. My pores have become a sprinkler system spewing sweat that runs down my face and pools at the base of my neck like the Great Lakes. My damp clothing is a second skin that I can’t remove fast enough. Where the hell is the shut-off valve?
BLOATY: I have a stomach that feels like it has been inflated with helium. Put a string in my nose and watch me float across the sky like the Goodyear Blimp.
SLEEPY: I’m always sleepy because I can’t sleep when I need to be sleeping. Insomnia has stolen the joy of hibernating under my blanket for hours and has turned me into a creature of the night. When I finally do fall asleep, I fall so deep that I can’t wake up. My house could go up in flames and I wouldn’t know it. If that ever happens, the firemen will just have to carry me out on my bed because I’m not leaving my Tempur-Pedic for anyone.
DRIED-UP: Sex is not always pleasant when there’s tumble weeds rolling around in the desert of my lady bits. If I’m not careful, my poor husband will be searching my body for alternative orifices.
FORGETFUL: I forget the pasta water that’s boiling over on the stove; I forget to pick up my granddaughter from pre-school, and I forget to walk the dogs until one of them leaves a smelly surprise on the couch. You know what would make a great Christmas gift this year, Santa? A LoJack for my car keys and reading glasses.
PSYCHO: Think Jack Nicholson in The Shining, or Norman Bates from The Bates Hotel. It’s all fun and games until the grocery store no longer stocks my favorite Pinto Grigio and flames begin shooting out of my nostrils. Mr. Grocery Store Manager, you have been warned.
I can only hope that one day soon the prince of post-menopause will arrive on my doorstep. With a single kiss, all my symptoms will disappear….and only then will I live happily ever after.
