Before going any further, I would like to warn my readers of the gentlemen persuasion that this post will deal with Lady Issues. Don’t be ashamed; trust me, Boyfriend runs away screaming whenever I bring them up.
When I was ten years old, I received a gift. A surprise, to be more accurate. At first I didn’t know what it was; I knew, however, that it was unwelcome, rather awful, embarrassing and really, what the hell was going on anyway.
My parents were out of town, so mother was not available to clear things up for me. I was staying with my aunt and uncle, so it was left to my aunt to explain this ugly onset to me. When she had paused, I did the only thing a ten-year old girl would do under the circumstances. I burst into tears. And for the next 45 years, every month, I’ve done the same thing.
Then, for the past 12 months, things seemed to have stopped. It was delightful. But clearly this was something my Lady-Issues Doctor – or my G-Man as I call him – should know. And this past November, after a blood test, he called me in to inform me that my hormones – those little messengers of hysteria – had basically dried up. The well was officially empty.
So now I’m taking pills for Hormone Replacement Therapy, because I don’t want to be all brittle and stuff. I always knew that I would age ungracefully, and with Extreme Prejudice, but this would be the delightful á la mode on life’s dessert tray. So it’s HRT for me.
So is this Age’s red flag? Am I enjoying the ironical use of the bloodiest of colors? Perhaps. Hence one must take care. The body has accumulated many epochs, and is therefore tempted to flutter a regretful handkerchief at youth, as our ship slips through the waves, and the child we embraced for so long remains on the dock, waving goodbye.
The physicality of Age cannot be denied. It manifests itself in a legion of unwanted ways…and in one way that is welcome. Hi, Menopause. I’ve been waiting four decades to make your acquaintance. Want to play fast and loose with my hormone levels? I have a little pink pill and a little brown one that will set that right.
However, my age does not determine my behavior. It never has; and it definitely never will. I’m sure I’ve said it before, but I think it bears repeating, that I will give you my burgundy lipstick when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.
Because it is called Change of Life; not end of life.