Yesterday, I woke up bald. (Or, nearly so. At least, it FELT that way!) This is the story of the ensuing FREAK SHOW!
The Deets: I can’t see so clearly without my trifocals, but I must have caught the light just right as I was washing my face.
Rinsed. Then went to “arrange” my nearly-natural blond tresses, and there it was – er, WASN’T!
A big old patch of nothingness where my left-side hair line used to be.
As, I said, “freak show.”
So, I looked on the other side. WTF?!!! GONE, TOO!!!!
Tears, wringing of hands. Call to doctor.
* * * * *
My body is NOT fully cooperating with me and my Big Dream these days.
I’m “not quite menopausal” and it can’t decide what the eff it wants to do with me.
Hot flashes come. They go.
Night sweats come. They go.
There’s a new layer of reptilian skin on my jawline. But only in patches, for your viewing pleasure.
I’m crying all the time. (Making up for those 17 tearless years after my father died.)
I’m up. I’m down.
I’m brilliant. I suck.
Geez!!! Who invented this menopause SHIT!!!
Met with spiritual advisor. Discussed that aging is full of loss – in this case, “loss of beauty.”
Decided to write about it.
In the meantime, had to get “Ask Jen” out the door. Because I promised.
Limped along because that’s what commitment looks like. And also because Tuesday I stayed in bed drooling on myself. AND because I can’t be a midlife reinventionist . . . midlife midwife . . . midwife revivalist, if I’m not actually LIVING this stuff I write about.
Well, I could be. But I’d be a liar.
And, I’m not.
So, I made the video. Which took a little longer than I thought it would.
Halfway through, I decided to take my nose ring out. Because it looked like the hugest ever Wart. Blackhead. Boil?
Well, SOMETHING unacceptable. (loss of beauty, again.)
THEN, had the “pleasure” of putting that damn nose ring back in.
Dealt with the blood.
Thought of new blog post – “Vanity Hurts. But, Hey. It Hurts to be Beautiful.” Because that’s what my mom said my grandma told her when she whacked her over the head with the hairbrush whenever my mom squirmed at grandma’s ritual grooming ministrations.
Off to doctor.
The dreaded scale. What the eff???????
Nurse took off two pounds because I was wearing jeans.
If I could, I would have her baby for that.
EXCEPT, I CAN’t!
Because my EFFING ovaries have decided to move on.
Because it’s funner that way.
AND, they can’t make up their EFFING mind about the whole thing, so they come in and out of retirement.
My doctor is a man. We’ve been together a while. Almost as long as my first marriage. He’s a nice guy. He shakes your hand when he comes into the exam room.
I tell him I’m sure I have thyroid disease.
He smiles. And says . . .
Blah, blah, blah, blah, . . . OVARIES . . . blah, blah, blah blah . . . ESTROGEN . . . blah . . . could take SEVERAL EFFING YEARS (okay the swearing was happening only in my head. Because he’s a gentleman. He shakes your hand when he says ‘hello’ and everything.)
I cry. Because it’s what I do, apparently.
Geez. There she is again, “Jen – showing her ass!”
So, discuss options. And Male-Patterned Baldness.
Apparently, that’s temporal.
Unless, of course, it’s not.
Either way, I’m glad I didn’t go to the barber shop and get my whole head shorn. Which was actually one of the first “solutions” that came to me after finding out that I was nearly bald.
Came home. Briefed husband, who was an effing nurse “back in the day.” (It scared him really bad when I told him about my shaving the head solution. That part was fun.)
Husband’s bedside manner sucks. Because he’s a scientist. Remember. It’s me. Husband. Six sons. Even the cat and the dog have peenuses in my world!
Not a FUNctuing ovary to be found ANYWHERE.
So, back to husband. He listens. Nods. Looks likes he’s grasping for a good response.
Because, IRONICALLY, his “go to” comment whenever he doesn’t know what to say is – get this – I’m NOT LYING –
His “go to” statement when he is stumped by a woman is,
I LIKE YOUR HAIR!!!
Which he obviously can’t use at this particular time.
If he wants to live.
I dared him with my eyes, though.
THEN, because god has NO END to his sense of humor, we had our regular Thursday night DATE NIGHT.
So I got to cry at the Pho restaurant. And then we got ice cream. I ordered two scoops and he goes, “Well, I guess you’re not ALL THAT WORRIED about losing weight.” Which was not only stupid but EFFING BRAVE given the day I had.
And – here’s the ONLY part of the day I regretted – I changed my mind and asked for just one scoop.
I know. I know. I’m hanging my head in shame a bit over that.
We get home. Make it through the rest of the night.
Get ready for bed . . . AND then????????
I GET MY PERIOD.
How was your day?
Photo: Flickr, eelco