Talking about personal, taboo or controversial subjects gives me the willies. Topics include general embarrassing life moments, bodily functions, private family business, sex, abortion, gay marriage, Albert Camus’ writing, Joe Biden’s IQ, Cuban tourism, the death sentence, the meaning of life, MARTA, or how to pronounce Regina, Saskatchewan.
Some of it is that I don’t like the inevitable confrontation that arises from these topics. The rest is my Catholic upbringing. Oh wait, I wasn’t raised Catholic. Maybe it’s my Mid-Western upbringing? Okay, so it’s just that I don’t like confrontation. Oh, and then there are my shame issues. Years of therapy helped but pretty much just smeared my problems on the white board of life rather than erase them.
Anyway, so leave it to the world to put a bunch of these issues right in my face this week. Supreme Court gay marriage decisions, Texas abortion clinic filibusters, the historical remarks of Paula Dee (yes, let’s leave the “n” out of her name), and the above menstruation advertisement have preheated my internal oven to cake-baking temperatures. Then ice that cake with the peri-menipausal symptoms I’ve been enduring for the past six weeks, and I’ve got myself what you might call a full plate…including the dessert. (p.s. wanna know an easy way to remember how to spell dessert? It’s twice as good as a desert, so it’s got two s’s- thanks mom!)
So as usual let’s start with me, since I am, after all, the star of this blog. Forget about the fact that I can now move to any one of 12 states or the District of Columbia to get married and have my 16 year relationship fully recognized by our good gub’ment. And forget about the fact that I may not have chosen an abortion back in the day but would have been eternally thankful that a clinic was available to me had I determined that was what was best for me. Forget about all of that. The important thing is that this week will go down in history because it’s the first time I’m admitting to symptoms of menopause. I swore I would never be one of those women who would bitch and w(h)ine about hot flashes. But unfortunately, they became apparent to the observer’s naked eye. I could no longer cover up the drenched shirt fact that I was having night sweats, day sweats, happy hour sweats, early evening sweats, late afternoon sweats, post-brunch sweats, television watching sweats, fly fishing sweats, pre-yoga sweats, and during yoga sweats (although I can’t really tell the difference between these and my normal yoga sweats).
Since I was a teenager, I’ve been longing for the lady’s holiday to end; now I’m longing for it to come back. How else do I take three days off from yoga without an out of town excuse?
Enough said. This is way more embarrassing sharing than I’m used to.