Beauty sleep, they say…what a bunch of hogwash! It is the most miserable time of my day, tossing and turning all night. I have tried it all – melatonin, special gummies, Zquil, meditation – to no avail. I have officially hit rock bottom, how you ask? I may have posted on a chat group,‘HELP- Desperate WF sleep deprived- seeking ZZZs.‘ My inbox is packed with articles that read in part ‘What’s keeping you up, buttercup? Three things you are doing to hurt your sleep.’
It is not the falling asleep but the staying asleep that trips me. One of those old-school digital alarm clocks is positioned perfectly on my nightstand. With a simple turn of my head, tada, the ungodly hour lights up, and let the torment commence. My brain typically unleashes at threeish with a hypothetical coulda, woulda, shoulda game. Intellectually, I understand that worrying about made-up scenarios is a ridiculous waste of time, but my brain is emotionally overdriven with thoughts. This week has been a real doozy. The only upside is that titles for future blog posts keep rolling in;
- Seniors-the dark, lonely, and joyless side of aging
- A man-child’s broken heart
- Wounded birds- why they attack
- Teenagers: the art of manipulation
This morning, I made it to 4:07 a.m., a small victory by my calculations, until I felt the cold and clammy sensation. I was swimming in a sea of sweat, gross (insert vomiting emoji). Sluggishly, I rose out of bed, exposing the sweat angel—strike that—more like evidence from a crime scene, my body perfectly traced on the sheets. No need to call in the detectives; I know the perp—womanhood.
At least I know the cause. The first time I woke up drenched, I thought, this is how my story ends; I have the big C; I better say my goodbyes. Turns out, nope, not Cancer, just a case of perimenopause. Huh, somehow, this seemed less conceivable; I am only forty-eight. Wrong again, quite normal at my age. Not surprisingly, women don’t talk about it.
Womanhood
I was a pudgy thirteen-year-old when my mom handed me a gift bag. ‘ Congratulations, you are officially a young woman.’ Ooh, a gift, bonus day! I was horrified to discover a package of Always XL maxi pads and a three-pack of Hanes Her Way undies. ‘To celebrate your womanhood,’ she blurted and walked away. Left in my room, holding what could pass as diapers, I thought, this isn’t right. We never spoke of ‘it’ again.
My mom had a prudish, conservative upbringing, so having uncomfortable convos was not in the cards. At thirteen, this served me well. I was thrilled not to talk about embarrassing stuff like sex, periods, and body parts, phew! Plus, I felt confident with my Seventeen magazine’s intel and vaguely remember tearing out an article that read ‘The facts of life your mother won’t tell you about’ and tucking it away for safekeeping.
Knowing what I know now, I am unsure that ‘celebrate’ is the word I would use to welcome and describe code red. Cramps, bloating, moodiness, stains, stinkiness, annoyance, acne, and inconvenience are more applicable.
Thirty-five years later, the ‘celebrating’ continues as I round the corner into menopause. Ah, the after-party, graduating from cramps to sweat baths. Well, womanhood just keeps getting better, said no woman, ever.
Visits from Aunt Flo will soon be a thing of the past, which doesn’t suck. The tradeoff, though. For one, the laundry loads have increased, equating to more wrestling matches with the fitted sheets; By the way, am I the only one that sucks at folding a fitted sheet? How did I miss this in Home EC class? Don’t answer, Erika, my sis, who is the queen of the linen closet. And what about the two-a-day showers like some sort of athlete? Geez, Louise, most days I don’t have time for one shower, and now I must take two. Don’t get me started on the tire around my waist and the changes with my vajayjay.
Just sayin’ in my world, beauty sleep is not a thing, and womanhood stinks, like, literally. I am a sweaty, crabby, tired, sleep-thirsty chick. It ain’t right, and it ain’t no celebration. But I am not dying, so there is that.
Xo-Mic
