Are You There God? It's Me, Menopausal Madwoman

Mid-week, I suddenly find myself in that wide-awake, Hello and How-do-you-do-Menopause state of mind.  And naturally, it’s 2:15 in the morning, because Menopause is careful enough to make sure that crazed women are in this state at a time when no one else is going to cross their paths, tip toe around them, or have an opportunity to bear witness.  There are certain aspects of the developmental milestones along the stages of life that occur in such a fine-tuned and carefully orchestrated and executed manner that I find astounding.  I think the timing of these stages when comparing how they occur at different, but overlapping generational peaks could lead even the most assured atheists, or common ordinary heathens, to have to wonder.....

For instance, as I have arrived in Menopause and became a card-carrying member of panic, perspiration, palpitations and pulsating electric charged hot flashes, I have to prepare my youngest bird to leave the nest.  I probably don’t have to go too deeply into this.  Maybe you can just reread that first sentence and pause at the word prepare.  And now, you can get up off the floor because, it’s true- It is funny.  Prepare?  That bird has been planning that flight from the first time he heard me digging through the attic swearing and banging boxes around, asking if he knew where my summer clothes were in the middle of winter.  And each time I forget something, like the question I asked him two seconds ago, or ask him about a CD when I’m supposed to say DVD, he neatly stacks another box or suitcase in the trunk of his car.  Prepare him to leave the nest?  What a lark that is!  Or…….maybe …..just maybe….Divine Intervention.

The flipside of this?  Leading up to getting that card for Menopause that I am proudly carrying, or at least carrying in full view, I was truly worried about how difficult my life was going to be when he left.  What would I do?  Who will I be?  Real time was spent, or wasted here.  I went on a long extended road trip last summer, partially, because he was away and I wasn’t exactly sure how I would manage some of that time.  (Of course, I managed.  It was fabulous and fortifying and I was also able to fight through some fears and worries, often over a fine wine and a beautiful view or alongside some incredible friends or freely on my own.)  The joke here?  The developmental stage of a soon to be launched teenage son or daughter is already equipped with surly, snide and sarcasm.  When it comes time to push that bird, I won’t even stop long enough to hear if there is a flap-flap-flap, or a splat.  I will be packing my suitcase and grabbing my tickets for some unchartered course of my own.  I will be flying like a kite in the wind, all high and twisted. Or is that my thong all high and twisted?  Anyway....who can keep track?

Here’s another perk-  at 2:15, mid-week when I awoke and greeted Menopause with a how-do-you-do-I-think-we’ve-met-before, I reached for my laptop to check the state of the world, the in-box full of overwhelming I’m-not-sure-what’s from I-don’t-know-who’s and maybe facebook, or Amazon, or Overstock.com, my daughter messaged me.  So just like that I’m awake in Menopause, she’s awake in Albany and we get to visit.  In that mother-daughter mysterious bond of, mystical, madness, and melancholy missing.  OK, maybe that's a bit much.  I type- “Why are you up so late?” in that way that mother’s have of making you feel like you are doing something wrong and you’re caught.  She types back.  “Grrrnnn, I knew you were going to ask that.”  But really?  I am thrilled that we are suddenly on the same schedule and I get her all to myself.  She is old enough now to trust and know that I truly like her, and that I'm sort of OK, in addition to providing all that mother-sized love that can fill up a room and squish the life out of it.  What with that last cortex of her brain developed, and the first of mine starting to go, quickly.  She has the upper hand.  And she earned it fair and square.  She types again, “Why are you up so late?”  I tell her, “Oh good old Menopause.”  (I refuse to protect that be-otch!  I am not taking Men-o-pause on alone, the secret's out. Hrrrrumpffffff!)  My daughter responds, “Oh, I can’t wait for that, no thank you, go back to pre-puberty? Blecchhkkk!” 

I get stuck here and maybe this makes me question the meaning of life and the possibility of a higher being…I start to think of my favorite book from early puberty, the one that all girls read collectively and knew intimately.  It also dealt with religion and the belief in God.  That beautiful story of that other rite of passage by Judy Blume, when we were all crossing our fingers and hoping for our periods and our breasts to emerge….

"Are you there God? It's me, Margaret. I can't wait until two o'clock God. That's when our dance starts. Do you think I'll get Philip Leroy for a partner? It's not so much that I like him as a person God, but as a boy he's very handsome. And I'd love to dance with him... just once or twice. Thank you God."
      Judy Blume, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.

I stop questioning God, or a higher power, because this can't be a natural occurrence.  Natural occurrences don’t  understand human interactions, in fact nature doesn’t typically distinguish whether it’s taking out a tree or a small family or a nuclear power plant when it launches a hurricane or tsunami.  But, Menopause?  Now that is one sick sense of humor that only a male-like deity could create.  Pre-puberty?  Before Menses?  I think not!  Let me tell you something, If I had my current height with my pre-pubescent build? Well, let’s just say women in their 50’s would be the goddesses that our youth try so hard to emulate or date.  I was a stick of a thing in my prepubescent state.  With my stylin' pixie haircut?  OMG Fab-u-lous!  Oh Yeah, I would be owning that cat walk and my claws, or talons would be waving bye-bye and taking a few eyeballs out just for fun.  But, nooooooooo.  I have a mustache and a beer gut.  What in the name of Menopause is that about?  A five-oclock shadow, an occasional snore, dry, transparent skin and panic attacks.  What’s next?  Funky Man Odor and ass-scratching in public? 

Uh-Oh.... Are you there God? It’s me, Menopausal Madwoman.  I didn’t mean those last comments.  I can’t control anything these days.  But really, if you’re there God, I would like to have less facial hair growth, I will work on the muffin-top or beer gut myself once I get to sleep through the night again and have enough energy when the gym is open…..and maybe God? If you’re still there, I wouldn’t mind if Philip Leroy, or Tom, Dick, or Harry would dance with me, or say hello, or have some God-forsaken moment of understanding that I am going through "the change", and these bursts of freakish insanity really don't represent the sweet, sassy, loving, sex fiend I truly am.  But maybe God?.... if they weren’t all dating twenty year olds with moisture producing skin ducts my friends and I would be a lot easier to talk to!  God?  What exactly is your problem with women?   What kind of sick joker are you?  Yeah! I’m talking to you, God! Really? You aren’t going to answer?  Oh, nice, you're going to pretend you can't hear me and the other 3 plus billion women out here?  You are just going to zap me with electricity and have my eyes swell and burst with tears?  You do know that I am not really producing a great deal of moisture these days and having all those salty tears flow down my dry skin, burns?  Oh?  You did know that?  Yeah, you are a real peach aren’t you now?  Oh yeah. I guess this was your master plan after all.  Well, OK. Thanks, God. 

Was that my last bird who just burnt rubber in the front of my house…..?  Did he pack my eight tracks?  

OK, Soooooo God, Old pal...JK, No, no, no, not "JC", jk, as in just kidding.  Yeah, I'm still a spitfire, little, sassy, cracker-jack.  I know you have this all worked out and one day I will be let in on the joke and suddenly it will all be clear.  But if you aren't too busy, ....the facial hair?  and the bursts of crazy?  Well, how will I ever get 7 minutes in heaven without a little help from my friend in a mighty high place?  Just sayin, Margaret got her 7 minutes and she was prepubescent and moody and probably had a lot of zits...