Monday, January 11, 2010
It started in earnest at my annual check-up. The gynecologist asked me, "So, when did your periods stop again?"
I tensed my abdomen slightly as he pressed on it with his warm gloved hand. "Uh, I'll have to get back to you on that. If you'd like to be the first one I call with that news when it happens, I'll move you to the head of the list."
"So, not yet, huh?"
I relaxed my abs just as he inserted a finger into my anus without warning. Yow! It was bad enough being over the hill looking back at that pipsqueak doctor only forty years old, but when he assumed I had slipped further down that slippery slope than I had, was it time to think about dyeing my hair? I didn't want to, though. I have a salt-and-pepper mop top, getting slightly saltier each year. Just as I am. I never used to use the f-word. Now all it took was the phone ringing and out it popped with a terrifying vehemence.
Hi, my name is Barb, and I'm not an alcoholic. I know that statement will make many of you believe that I am. I'll risk that. This is my truth-telling blog, my attempt to lay bare the aging body of a 52-year-old. Unlifted, unbuffed, unplucked, no smoke and mirrors. I read that hilarious book by Nora Ephron, I Feel Bad About My Neck, and realized, you know what? I don't feel bad about my neck. Or my big old butt. Or my non-canonical thighs. Or my strong opinions. Or my increasingly faulty filter. I used to keep my opinions to myself because I feared hurting other people's feelings, but hey, they weren't all that worried about mine, so here goes.