The “Me” in Menopause

 

Warning: If you aren’t a male with an open mind and sense of humor close this browser then promptly punch yourself in the dick.  You’re hopeless! If you are a male wanting disgustingly honest insight to what it’s like to lose control of your own body, by all means…read on. Your woman will thank you later, you know after she’s done crying.
men·o·pause
ˈmenəˌpôz/
noun
  1. the ceasing of menstruation.
    • the period in a woman’s life (typically between 45 and 50 years of age) when this occurs.

    Simply defined as that moment in every woman’s life she’s conditioned to fucking dread, to fear, to hope like the holy mother of sanitary products it forgets about her.

    Only it doesn’t.

    True story, happened on 12/8/2015: Picture it, stirups, low lights, ice cold lubricant and a steady hand. He leans in, smiles and whispers, “Relax Kelly, it’s normal, you’re normal. It’s just your body preparing itself for menopause. It’s nothing to worry about, you’re doing great.” It’s a miracle I didn’t slice his throat with the speculum.

    True Story.

     

    Some women come to it naturally, falling into that 45-50 year old gap. Some, like me, fast track the process. Years of reproductive health problems, miscarriages, surgical procedures with no relief. You’ve come to the end of the line, that time when you sit down with your uterus and gently explain, “You’re a whore and I refuse to let you destroy me, therefore you gotta die.”

    So you have a hysterectomy, you even get to keep an ovary. This is great news, something to celebrate. Time passes by and you begin having the highly anticipated hot flash the gals rave about. It’s not painful or anything, just inconvenient. But in your mind you shrug it off because it still beats a period bitches. You have these a lot.

    Month after month your lone ovary beats like the little drummer boy listening to Metallica’s For whom the bells tolls after three lines of choice smack. But again, still not bleeding and counted as a win.

    You adapt, you live and you kinda forget.

    Until you hit 40 and strange things begin to happen. Sudden bouts of burping, bloat, ass blowing and yes, the feels.

    ALL the feels.

    Laughter turns to tears, tears turn into anger and that anger morphs you into motherfucking Chuck Norris who listens to Metallica while doing blow. You burp for no reason, you expel air FROM YOUR ASS without so much as a heads up and through all of it? You are sweating like a whore in church. No one loves you but you love everyone. No one gets you but you get them. Ellen’s show is the highlight of your day because god dammit, she’s so generous! If given a chance you’d even towel whip a Kardashian with the sham-wow you dab the sweat from the back of your neck with because it should serve more than one purpose.

    I bet it sounds like I’m complaining, right? Yeah, you if know what’s good for you, you best not say yes…

    Actually, I’m not complaining.

    Because to me, it’s something I have little to no control over and ? It’s just funny. Knowing an explosion’s coming and sprinting to the bathroom to sit on a towel so no one can hear you is funny.

    (And, let’s be honest genius)

    It’s a natural thing whether a few years ahead of schedule or not. These atrocities happening to me at the worlds worst times means something very important.

    It means I’m healthy.

    It means my body is doing what it’s supposed to even if I don’t agree with it. (Best believe, I don’t)

    It means I sit on the phone with my girlfriends while each of us discuss the disgusting  laws our bodies broke that day. It means I ask my husband to leave the room before I kill him but I do it laughing. Granted, it’s an evil laugh but he knows it’s an evil laugh of love.

    It means I ask my mom, how did you not kill people? It means she blinks and says, “I honestly don’t know…” (because odds are good she did and my dad hid the bodies)

    It means it’s real.

    Which makes it real for men too. Most women I know excuse themselves to another room to burp or ***gasp*** fart. I know, I know, how dare I say the F word? To this day I pee with the door closed, water running and if possible music playing because for me it’s a private thing. So what happens when you’re privacy is stolen?

    You freak the fuck out, that’s what.

    Men you need to remember you’ve always been disgusting. Burping, farting, scratching your balls and ass is natural to you. Picking your noses and even with hair growing in your ears we still love you. So cut your woman some fucking slack while she/we come to terms with our bodies doing something we’ve spent our whole lives trying to avoid.

    Embracing gross bodily functions.

    Because there’s nothing like standing in line and having it happen and whipping around in a circle three times to see who it was then having it register it was you. You did this offensive thing. In public!

    Yes, all of the things I mentioned are normal. TO YOU. Not to us. It’s going to take some getting used to. So if you value your genitals and the tires on your truck, laugh with us not at us. Don’t roll your eyes when we cry at the grass being mowed. Don’t diss Amy Schumer because she’s our hero and you don’t get her. You’re not supposed to get her, she’s ours! When our makeup melts off tell us we’re pretty and do so believably!

    When we scream at you to leave it’s code for never leave me but buy me some fucking ice cream while you’re out! Explain to your friends, your children and the mail lady that your woman is working some shit out. Further explain that she’s not nuts, just prioritizing. Finally explain that she will straight cut you if you look at her funny.

    Knowledge is power people.

    For me, menopause means I’m healthy.

    But don’t mistake it, when I get caught I’ll always blame it someone else. Because yes, farts are funny. Just not when they’re mine.

    You’re welcome,

    KS