Men think they have it so tough. At age fifty they're required to have their prostrate checked which is a slightly invasive procedure. Usually performed by a female Doctor, a gloved finger is inserted up the posterior, to check for any abnormalities such as tumor growth.
That's nothing boys, earlier this week I was subject to an exam which included being violated with a condom clad cattle prod to glean an ultra sound picture of my endometrium, ovaries, and the newest addition to my anatomy - a large fibroid the size of a grapefruit.
How do you prepare for
something like that? No candy, no flowers, no conversation. Just a wham bam thank you ma'am.
A three day wait resulted
in, what they consider, a normal reading. Even though I have a small cyst on
each ovary and an entangled mass growing in my lower abdomen. So be
it. The fibroid is suppose to take care of itself, committing suicide
and shrinking on its own, when I go through menopause.
Bring it on.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. I've noticed a shift in my hair growth patterns over the last several years.
My eyebrows don't need nearly the attention they're used to and the hair on my legs has gotten finer which means I've been able to retire the weed whacker and a 'once a week' touch up will do. Don't get me wrong I'm definitely not complaining but it seems these stray hairs have migrated from my brows and legs to my chin and neck.
God has a mighty sense of humor, perhaps it's to give us a taste of what our men folk have to deal with. It's almost like a role reversal, we get some facial hair and they develop breasts and bellies that would put a pregnant woman to shame.
Medically speaking they say it's all due to hormone fluctuations. Our Estrogen and Progesterone decrease and our testosterone elevates somewhat, causing the additional hair growth, not to mention (if you're one of the lucky ones), a surge in our libidos.
Well, if all else fails I could always pick up some extra coin as a side show act in a traveling circus. God knows the way our government looks after its elderly I'll be needing the extra funds to make my golden years golden.
Seriously? It's not something I ever thought about as a young woman, I think I took it for granted that the array of high heel beauties would always be available to me.
I remember being a little girl and trying to slip on my mother's high heel shoes. I couldn't wait to be old enough to fill them. I loved everything about them, not only how they looked but the wonderful sound they made as they struck a hard surface.
Last Saturday as I meandered through a local shoe department I spotted a pretty pair of camel coloured heels. I wasn't in the market for a pair but I thought it would be fun to try them on just for size.
Imagine my shock and horror as I pulled down a pair of size 9's (thinking I was being more than generous since I used to be a size 8 prior to the birth of my offspring) only to feel like the ugly stepsister, Drizella, from the children's book Cinderella.
I checked the box and the inside of the shoe numerous times, perhaps it was actually a 6? After all 6 and 9 can be easily confused. Damn those little lines that underscore each number to avoid confusion!
Is this a cruel joke or is this nature's way of weeding out the weak? A way to keep us elderly folks safe from breaking an ankle or a hip while teetering around on those 4 inch spikes? Maybe Mother Nature knows best but I'm not liking the fact that my foot resembles the width of a cinder block. Is this what's referred to as the middle age spread?
I used to look at older ladies and their Tender Tootsie footwear and think 'that will never be me' ... and now, sadly, I realize their choice is not only for comfort but also because they have been put into a category where all choices are no longer available to them. I can almost feel the glare of Abercrombie & Fitch ... how dare we try to be fashionable.
And so I tread softly into my fifties with my crocs and sensible shoes, just another marker on my journey into this Half Century Club.
I thought this 50 thing was going to be a piece of cake. Most women I speak to say they dread the upcoming number but my mother always told me "you're only one day older than you were the day before" and so I never thought of it as a big deal.
What she didn't tell me were all the little nuances (or is that nuisances) that go along with it.
That's what this blog will be about, although each woman will deal with different issues my hope is that if there are any points I touch on that strike a chord we'll be able to muddle through these years together.
Just a spoiler alert for the younger crowd who happen upon my small corner of the web ... there will be a few issues I'll be discussing which could quite possibly glean me an "OH MOM why'd you have to post that" kind of response. Apologies ahead of time but if you really don't want to know about this stuff then I'd advise you close your browser now. :)
I'm looking forward to sharing.
