Hormones. Something we know so little about in our youth, except that they made us feel ridiculously sexy and invincible when we were ridiculously young, and really, probably made us act ridiculous as a result. I say "probably" because I am not sure that I actually did the things I see all the high school girls doing in the halls of the school where I work. I am SURE that I was the exception. (Denial is a lovely place, if you haven't visited there lately, you should give it a try.)
The first real time that I started to notice hormonal changes occurred in my early 20s, after giving birth to Gage, my oldest son. In my carefree youth (just a few years before), I used to find horrific things entertaining. I believe that I actually watched a movie entitled "The Faces of Death" with my cousin Mary, and even though (if memory serves) it was a movie of actual footage of people being being killed in various grisly accidents, I remember she and I laughing maniacally while my uncle looked on in disbelief. No, I wasn't sadistic, I didn't torture animals (insects don't count, and I hadn't done that in years), and I didn't actually want to hurt anyone or see anyone get hurt. But for a thousand developmentally appropriate reasons, we just thought it was funny, mostly because it wasn't happening to us (egocentrism at it's finest).
Fast forward five years. (Yikes, had I known at 16 that I would be a mom at 20, I'd like to believe that I would have lived life a little differently. But here I am again, visiting in the land of Denial.) After delivery, the strangest thing happened; I started to choke up over things I might have previously scoffed at, or laughed at as lame. Sad commercials (Yes, there are sad ones.) And sad songs--oh please! I remember the time that Eighteen Wheeler by Alabama came on the radio and I full-on started to cry. No kidding, I had to start skipping that song whenever it came on, and (insert embarrassment here) I still do. What had happened during pregnancy that had made me more sensitive and vulnerable, without logic or reason? Hormones. That's what happened. And they weren't done with me.
I noticed the next little change when I turned 29 and I was no longer interested in sex as a recreational activity, I was interested in it as a necessary activity. I was married to my first husband and I remember our having a conversation (that is a nice word for fight when you are in a troubled marriage) wherein I was trying to impress upon him the necessity of meeting my physical needs. I would like to believe that it was my request for thrice weekly servicings, and his subsequent refusal, that predicated our divorce, but it wasn't. I SHOULD have divorced him for that alone, but I didn't, turns out there were bigger issues that that. But I was amazed at how something that had been for fun before was now becoming a need. Why were men looking SO good? Even (sometimes) the not so good looking ones? Had my judgement left the house? Did I have a new "type?" Nope. It was the hormones. Again.
Now, approaching 40 (but still looking good), I had my hormones tested because (no duh) I knew that something was wrong. Well, I knew a lot of things were wrong because I was generally in a oh-I-hope-we-don't-tonight mood, whereas just two years ago I was saying to Brian (my forever husband), "You gots to meet my needs again tonight because the Bible says so!" While there are a number of factors outside of my control that are certainly impacting my energy level regarding extra-curricular marital activities, it also turns out my progesterone levels are the same as those of a post-menopausal woman. What? I don't think so. I took a bath in topical progesterone cream when I got the results. I won't tell you how things are going since then, 'cause that part's none of your bizness. But really, why do hormones have to be another something for us gals to have to manage? Aren't babies, PMS, periods, bloating, cramps, and mood swings enough? Now we have to keep the hormones managed too, or risk being crazy, psychotic, super bitchy, or overly emotional? Ugh. I don't have the energy for this. Or to manage my iPod based upon which songs will bring me to tears after having just put on my eye-make up. Case in point:
Today, as I was getting ready for work, Seven Spanish Angels by Willie Nelson came on. Here is a quick rundown on the lyrics, so you can mentally get yourself in the same space I was in:
He looked down into her blue eyes, and said
"Say a prayer for me." She
Threw her arms around him, whispered
"God will keep us free."
They could hear the riders comin', he said,
"This is my last fight...If they
Take me back to Texas, they won't
Take me back alive.
There were seven Spanish angels, at the
Altar of the sun.
They were prayin' for the lovers, in the
Valley of the gun.
When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared,
There was thunder from the throne,
And seven spanish angels, took another
Angel home.
She reached down and picked the gun up,
That lay smokin in his hand.
She said, "Father please forgive me;
I can't make it without my man."
And she knew the gun was empty,
And she knew she couldn't win,
But her final prayer was answered
When the rifles fired again.
I'm curling my hair, doing my make-up, whatever, and for reals, I choked up. I had to swallow back a sob. Are you kidding me? Willie Nelson in the morning and I am wiping tears away. This has to stop. The 17-year-old-me, who still lives in my head (thank goodness), almost yelled, out loud, "Are you effing kidding me? Get a grip!" (I cussed a lot when I was 17, I'm trying to clean up her/my mental mouth. It's a process, we are making gains.) Looks like I'll be skipping that song on the iPod now too. Curses.
Sadly, I know for sure, that this isn't over.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Going Without
It's January 2012 and I sit 3 months away from my 38th birthday. As I suspect is the case for most women my age, I feel, on the inside, like I am still in my prime--which I have determined to be somewhere between the ages of 17 and 18. That is the last age that I can remember wherein I was fit, trim, and felt bold and confident about my body. Although I had been very active as a high school athlete, I got married (one week before my 19th birthday) to a man whose idea of exercise was lifting a beer can to his lips--regular physical activity wasn't a value in our home. Subsequently, my 20s were marked by periods of skinny-fat (being skinny but not fit) and yo-yo dieting because, as he often said, "What's to stop you from losing another 5 pounds?"
Ah the 20s...before my stomach and digestive track broke down in my 30s, I was able to eat anything I wanted (and did so, regularly), with nary a thought as to the food's benefit or detriment to my body. One day my friend Teresa and I were going to a football game, and on the way that I stopped in to a Sonic for dinner. When I asked her what she wanted, she replied, "Oh I can't eat this kind of food anymore. My body just can't handle the grease and stuff." Aghast, I replied, "I think I would DIE if I couldn't eat Sonic anymore. That's sad." After all, this is the same Sonic food chain who, periodically, produces a cake batter milkshake of which the taste rivals the ecstasy of a mediocre orgasm (yes, some orgasms are only mediocre).
Oh karma, you are such a fickle mistress. Here I am now, in my late 30s, and the closest I have been to a Sonic is to gaze longingly at it as I drive slowly past. Now realistically, I wouldn't want to put the junk they serve there into my body (very often), but to have a milkshake every now and then...oh what I wouldn't give! The injustice of this situation is often marked by the echo of a childhood "I told you so." My aunt Frances, while watching me eat as a youth, would often comment, "You better enjoy that while you can, you won't get to do that forever." At the time, couldn't fathom what she was talking about, andI don't know that it would have mattered if I had. I have come to believe that as humans, we can have no genuine appreciation for something until it is gone. Cases in point:
I graduated from a school in Eastern Oregon that was VERY small. There were ten kids in the high school, and only three in my graduating class (one of which was my sister, who graduated a year early). As a Junior, I spent the year lamenting the injustices of attending a school so small, vowing to leave that little one-horse town and never return, and questioning the sanity of the people who lived there. Now, 20 years later, I find the town charming and I have a retirement fantasy of owning a home there. At the time, maybe because I didn't have a choice as to whether or not I was going to live there, I could find very little to love about it. Now, however, I can appreciate the beauty of the small town, nestled (literally) in the Blue Mountains. I love that the people I know still living there are genuine, friendly to a fault, and content--they don't need no stinking city!!
Later on, when my kids were young (ages 4 and 9), getting them up and out of the house each morning was sometimes akin to summiting the peak of a small mountain. Many days I would get to work, collapse on Teresa's couch, and say something to the effect of, "Today I just wanted to put a brick on the gas pedal, point the Suburban toward a telephone pole, and jump from the rig. Getting here today was HORRIBLE." She would laugh, let me vent, and then she would say, "I know it's hard, but they grow so fast, someday you are going to look back at these times and you will miss them." Dammit, she was right. And not just because she is a touchy-feely social worker, but because at the time she had two high-school aged boys of her own. She knew that eventually I would miss those times because she, herself, had been there and done that, and knew that once it was gone, you can't get it back.
So the moral of the story is: insomuch as you can, appreciate the trials and the experiences in life as you are experiencing them. Nostalgia is best served with contentment, so to be able to look back over your life experiences and recall that you enjoyed the event to it's fullest is one of the sweetest gifts of all. There have been many times where I would find myself in that familiar mindset of "I just can't wait until this is behind me," and I recall that I used to think that way about the various developmental stages of my children. And now I do, indeed, miss those times. I don't want to undervalue any of my life experiences as I believe that at some point in the future, I will think back to the present day with a touch of longing and wistfulness. What I don't want to feel is regret--both for my actions, or for my attitude, so I try to appreciate each moment--even (and especially) the crappy ones. You just don't get those back.
To that end, I shall rejoice then, in my dairy-free, grain-free, caffeine-free diet that keeps my stomach and digestive track from rebelling day and night. While I think, at times, that it couldn't get worse than this, somehow I suspect that it could. I am sure that someone with Crohn's Disease could shed a little light on the injustice that I perceive. And for any of you girls in your 20s, or for those who have the benefit of a digestive track that has NOT YET broken down, drink a milkshake and eat a cheese burger for ME!!!! And wait, it might happen to you too if you are expecting to turn 40 someday!
Ah the 20s...before my stomach and digestive track broke down in my 30s, I was able to eat anything I wanted (and did so, regularly), with nary a thought as to the food's benefit or detriment to my body. One day my friend Teresa and I were going to a football game, and on the way that I stopped in to a Sonic for dinner. When I asked her what she wanted, she replied, "Oh I can't eat this kind of food anymore. My body just can't handle the grease and stuff." Aghast, I replied, "I think I would DIE if I couldn't eat Sonic anymore. That's sad." After all, this is the same Sonic food chain who, periodically, produces a cake batter milkshake of which the taste rivals the ecstasy of a mediocre orgasm (yes, some orgasms are only mediocre).
Oh karma, you are such a fickle mistress. Here I am now, in my late 30s, and the closest I have been to a Sonic is to gaze longingly at it as I drive slowly past. Now realistically, I wouldn't want to put the junk they serve there into my body (very often), but to have a milkshake every now and then...oh what I wouldn't give! The injustice of this situation is often marked by the echo of a childhood "I told you so." My aunt Frances, while watching me eat as a youth, would often comment, "You better enjoy that while you can, you won't get to do that forever." At the time, couldn't fathom what she was talking about, andI don't know that it would have mattered if I had. I have come to believe that as humans, we can have no genuine appreciation for something until it is gone. Cases in point:
I graduated from a school in Eastern Oregon that was VERY small. There were ten kids in the high school, and only three in my graduating class (one of which was my sister, who graduated a year early). As a Junior, I spent the year lamenting the injustices of attending a school so small, vowing to leave that little one-horse town and never return, and questioning the sanity of the people who lived there. Now, 20 years later, I find the town charming and I have a retirement fantasy of owning a home there. At the time, maybe because I didn't have a choice as to whether or not I was going to live there, I could find very little to love about it. Now, however, I can appreciate the beauty of the small town, nestled (literally) in the Blue Mountains. I love that the people I know still living there are genuine, friendly to a fault, and content--they don't need no stinking city!!
Later on, when my kids were young (ages 4 and 9), getting them up and out of the house each morning was sometimes akin to summiting the peak of a small mountain. Many days I would get to work, collapse on Teresa's couch, and say something to the effect of, "Today I just wanted to put a brick on the gas pedal, point the Suburban toward a telephone pole, and jump from the rig. Getting here today was HORRIBLE." She would laugh, let me vent, and then she would say, "I know it's hard, but they grow so fast, someday you are going to look back at these times and you will miss them." Dammit, she was right. And not just because she is a touchy-feely social worker, but because at the time she had two high-school aged boys of her own. She knew that eventually I would miss those times because she, herself, had been there and done that, and knew that once it was gone, you can't get it back.
So the moral of the story is: insomuch as you can, appreciate the trials and the experiences in life as you are experiencing them. Nostalgia is best served with contentment, so to be able to look back over your life experiences and recall that you enjoyed the event to it's fullest is one of the sweetest gifts of all. There have been many times where I would find myself in that familiar mindset of "I just can't wait until this is behind me," and I recall that I used to think that way about the various developmental stages of my children. And now I do, indeed, miss those times. I don't want to undervalue any of my life experiences as I believe that at some point in the future, I will think back to the present day with a touch of longing and wistfulness. What I don't want to feel is regret--both for my actions, or for my attitude, so I try to appreciate each moment--even (and especially) the crappy ones. You just don't get those back.
To that end, I shall rejoice then, in my dairy-free, grain-free, caffeine-free diet that keeps my stomach and digestive track from rebelling day and night. While I think, at times, that it couldn't get worse than this, somehow I suspect that it could. I am sure that someone with Crohn's Disease could shed a little light on the injustice that I perceive. And for any of you girls in your 20s, or for those who have the benefit of a digestive track that has NOT YET broken down, drink a milkshake and eat a cheese burger for ME!!!! And wait, it might happen to you too if you are expecting to turn 40 someday!
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