In my 20’s and 30’s, when I had to go in for my yearly female check up, the nurse or doctor would ask if my periods are regular. Now my doctor asks if I still get my period. I think I was 40 when I first heard that. I stopped for a second to make sure I wasn’t experiencing hearing loss or a serious misunderstanding. It was a shock to my system and I felt like he was being mean. I was insulted by the question. It was on an emotional level and I know it wasn’t meant to be insulting. It’s just that my interpretation was he was telling me I’m old. People say you’re only as old as you feel. I usually feel about 12. That day I felt as old as my eggs.
At my last appointment, he wanted to discuss birth control options. I told him we used the old fashioned come on one of my body parts method. He said since I still get regular periods (I felt 12 again), I should use a more reliable method like an IUD.
Whenever I hear IUD, I picture something like an old tv antenna floating around my uterus, poking my fallopian tubes and ovaries. I know this is completely inaccurate and they are probably very safe. It’s just that I remember a patient when I was working in the hospital whose IUD lodged itself into somewhere it shouldn’t and she was in terrible pain. My best friend told me I’m a scaredy cat and I should get one.
My doctor pitched the IUD like Billy Mays pitching Oxi Clean. He loved the IUD- I wasn’t sure if he got a kickback from the manufacturer. I held firm to my ignorant beliefs and said no thank you. He became more salesman-like and tried to alleviate my fears by telling me that it will only have to be changed once every seven years and by then I’ll have reached menopause and won’t need a refill. I politely declined. I realize he was trying to make me feel better, but it felt like a sucker punch in the gut.
I realize the doctor is just doing his due diligence and normally I don’t read into comments so deeply (don’t ask my husband about that last statement). And I’m even looking forward to menopause (only the not getting periods part – the rest seems horrifying). I just hope the change can at least hold off until I receive my first unsolicited AARP magazine in the mail.
Welcome to my blog! This is my way of getting older without pulling out all my gray hair. I just try to make fun of the FUPA, the cleavage wrinkles and the where did I put that moments.
I feel a huge sense of accomplishment when I remember where I put something. I was at my platonic wife’s (best friend) house one evening and we were hanging out in her bedroom. She got up to get a glass of wine from the kitchen and I asked her to bring me my phone while she was up. She asked where I left it and I literally could picture where it was. I was ecstatic.
These little wins give me hope my brain cells are not deteriorating as fast as they probably are. What made this an even greater achievement was that I was stoned.
Truly, a proud middle age moment.
The photo above is me as a middle aged biker chick.
My husband glides his hands down my back gently as we lay facing each other in bed. We hardly ever now get time to really take our time in bed because we’re so busy with full time jobs, filming, taking photos or editing. Or cleaning the house, doing errands, getting Jackie to brush her teeth, you get the idea. Anyway, so we are under the covers finally, kissing and holding each other and his hand makes its way to my not as firm as when I was in my 20’s buttocks. I used to have a really nice ass. Anyway, he cups my left cheek and my excitement is growing. He is caressing me softly and skating his fingers up and down and then….holy shit… he’s picking at a pimple on my ass.
Here’s the deal…whenever we are in bed or on the couch or wherever and he’s massaging me or stroking some area of my body and he finds a zit, he’s compelled to start picking at it. I’m thrown out of nirvana with one scratch of his fingernail. I wish he could overlook my butt pimples at least during foreplay. I suppose if he needs to pick at them we could set aside some non sex time for that. In general though, I would rather he ignore them completely.
It’s not just the bumps on my butt though, he goes after.
If we’re (usually he) is too tired to have sex, he’ll lightly scratch my back in bed sometimes.
Anything that is not at smooth skin level becomes fair game for his picking habit.
That includes skin tags which are popping up more and more as I get older.
That shit hurts.
I have to remind him they are attached to me.
When I entered my 40’s, I heard my biological clock ticking very loudly.
I knew I only had a few more years left of natural lubrication.
I don’t think most women think about that in their early 40’s (maybe they do and we’re just not communicating) but it really concerns me.
It’s one of the things we only think about when faced with pharmaceutical ads showing women on a bed talking vaguely about painful sex. For me it’s like being punched in the hooha.
It’s a wake up call.
But there is no call to action because there is nothing I can do to prevent it.
I actually have not fully accepted the inevitable though. Even though intellectually I know it is in my future, I have a glimmer of hope that I will be spared the dessication. I know it’s wishful thinking, like my chance of winning the lottery, but I have some kind of hope my body will beat the odds. I wouldn’t say it’s faith, like a belief in God. It’s more like a disbelief that I can’t control my body.
When does a woman’s vagina stop being called a pussy. Ok, I could just say vagina because I guess it’s redundant to say woman’s vagina. Anyway, there must be a limit to using the word pussy. I hope at 45 I haven’t reached that age. As derogatory as some may find it, I’ll feel worse when it won’t apply to me. Pussy has a sexual connotation (unless trying to emasculate a man). Am I reaching that “last fuckable” day like in that Amy Schumer video?