Peri-not-so-merry....
Warning to all of you youngsters (meaning anyone younger than me): RESPECT YOUR ELDERS. This will happen to you, too. Remember that I told you so. Now, stop snickering and bring me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to all you squeamish people: TOUGHEN UP. This is what happens. Now, stop whining and bring me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to all you men: SHUT UP and bring me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to my father: why are you reading this crap? Do you really want to know about your daughter’s menstrual cycle? Stop reading this and go get me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to my mother: I’m really not this old, so don’t worry about it. I’ll bring YOU some Dove Dark Chocolate.

I had been wondering where the hell my now-two-week-late period has been (not that there was ANY chance of pregnancy and not that I was fearful this might be the second coming—that’s MJagger’s daughter’s job). Not that you want to know, I have been blessed with the most-on-time-arrival of my period since the dawn of ovulating. O’Hare Airport should be so lucky to have such a high on-time arrival percentage. Anyway, I was standing there at work this morning when it happened….I was struck with a pain…a blinding, breath-stealing pain. I bent over, grabbed my belly, said some expletives. The pain was excruciating and anything unlike I’ve experienced since….wait a minute. These are cramps. I stopped to contemplate the pain. Yes, these are terminal cramps….but, I haven’t had cramps—real cramps—since high school. What the hell is this all about? I’m sure, though—it’s cramps. I muttered more expletives and toughened up. Who the hell whines about cramps at age forty-four?

I waddled across the hall (while holding my belly, of course) to a co-worker’s office. She’s just about my age and has listened to all my weird stories, so I figured she be a good one to bother. I start bitching and moaning about having these damned cramps and how I don’t ever get cramps and why the hell is my period two weeks late and how I feel like I’m about to pass a bowling ball. (Hey—what are co-workers for?) She starts laughing—in a supportive, non-judgmental way, if that’s even possible—and she gently reminds me that I am 44 years old. What the hell does that mean? I’m still bitching and moaning about how my period is out of control and a lot worse than it used to be and it was late and never has been late before and that I go in the bathroom and think, “JESUS! DID I JUST PASS MY LIVER or is that an ALIEN BABY?” She asked me about sweating at night and so, without thinking, I start bitching and moaning about this, too—“Geez, last night I was sweating so much I had to just about change the sheets. I slept with a towel!” She is still laughing.

Then it hits me. She thinks I am in peri-menopause…the beginning of the end. SHE THINKS I AM STARTING TO HAVE SYMPTOMS OF PERI-MENOPAUSE! The rat bastard!

Now, wait just a damn minute here! I may be 44 years old but I am a very YOUNG 44 year old. I barely have any grey hair, for god’s sake. I am certainly NOT READY for anything like this nonsense. Peri-menopause is for OLD PEOPLE. I am NOT an OLD PEOPLE!

I waddled back into my office and grabbed the bottle of Motrin. “Take four, they’re small” is my motto. I take four pills and sit down to contemplate the meaning of my menstrual cycle. I think about how unfair this is, now that I’m finally getting a grip on my emotions. Isn’t this just going to screw up all that hard work, all that money spent on medication????!!! I am BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER!

I get ready go on with my day, pissy and crampy and distracted but none the worse…when [an unnamed coworker--unnamed to maintain her anonymity--we'll call her Meri Peri] sees me. Being that Meri Peri is a women just a dot older than me, I whine to her about my cramps. She smiles. Uh-oh…she, too suggests peri-menopause is about to make home in my kingdom. She assures me I will live, adding that she is enjoying this event in her very own life. (Do we ever really want to know that our co-workers are peri-menopausal? Yes, I think we do.) I announce to her that no matter what the agency does, we must not hire another woman our age, because it's a really small agency, so the odds would really suck for those not flashing and shooting out blood clots the size of Utah if they were stuck with those of us who are doing just that.

There is nowhere to run or hide. I decide to run to another location, far away from my office. This diversion does not pan out as expected, as I run right into a peer--I'm going to call her Mary-not-so-merry-peri--who is exactly my age….who, for some unknown reason, starts talking about how she was in the ER this weekend because she was in such dire pain she thought she was having a miscarriage. Guess what? Her period was two weeks late and she was passing the world’s largest blood clot and….why, it looks like she is starting peri-menopause. THIS IS SO UNFAIR! We are both too young for this! We commiserate for a time and then go on with our day. We vow to support each other during this time of trauma and angst. I shudder—dear god, an entire army of my very own friends will be going through this at the same time. We are doomed, doomed, doomed! (Our spouses are doomed!) Didn't I just start menstruating? Wasn't it just yesterday I was listening to that "5th grade speech" from the school nurse? Wasn't 1975 just a few years ago??? Not-so-Meri agrees and passes the Motrin bottle.

So it has come to this. I thought talking about poop was important, but this must take precedence. I must now fill you with stories of my ovaries and uterus, of sweating and flashing, of blood clots and bigger blood clots. It’s only the very beginning stages but you’ve got to start somewhere…..

(MJagger, STOP LAUGHING! I can’t help it I was born in an earlier decade than you!)

So, start sending the dark chocolate and praying for the wife. Now, leave me alone so I can go put a heating pad on my belly…or, maybe I’ll just pour some ice cubes down my pants…WHERE'S MY DAMN CHOCOLATE, ANYWAY?!!!