Every once in a while, my mother (love ya, Mom!) goes on a letter-writing campaign for Jebus of some sort or other. As a lifelong, God-fearing, guilt-ridden, pleasure non-seeking lover of the Christ Lord Jesus Our Savior, she has taken it upon herself to send us, meaning my sisters and I, letters whenever she feels that we are straying from the flock.
Did I also mention that Midwestern German Catholics are heavy on the passive-aggressive martyrdom?
Anyway, I’ve been pretty much excused from receiving such letters as I have not grown and ejected some spawn from my demon uterus. In fact, I’m fairly certain that my mother has grown quite used to my life as a heathen. However, I recently got a Jebus letter.
Here it is: “I am also enclosing a magazine piece that I found in ‘Guideposts’ [the Jesus magazine] which I read monthly. I thought it might help you with the ‘is there life after death’ or ‘are we just fodder for worms’ dilemma. It really makes me wonder where you are on this as you always are so upset when I call you and tell you that so and so died. You act like you just don’t want to hear that and I wonder why this is so scary to you. Maybe if you believed in life after death, it might not be so scary. I certainly am not afraid as there are many references in the Bible to life after death. But then, of course, if you are not reading it, you don’t get that info.”
Having both feet firmly planted in the “fodder for worms” camp, this letter annoyed me. Not only was this paragraph sandwiched in between my mother looking for my old basketball shoes and then delightfully segues into her searching for a bottle of the most excellent Templeton Rye whiskey (made in Iowa) to send me, but she missed the point entirely.
Every Sunday night, she calls me and rattles off the local death list from that week. “So and so died…” “I have to go sing at so and so’s funeral.” “So and so had a motorcyle accident.” It goes on and on and on… Most of these people I don’t even know. Not only is it morbid, it’s irrelevant. For some reason, it makes me think that all my parents are doing is sitting around and watching everyone die and attending funerals. Fuck, they need to take a vacation and start doing some living.
Anyway, Mom, I’m not afraid of dying. But aging, on the other hand, scares the shit out of me. For fuck’s sake, I only quit smoking out of vanity, not a fear of cancer.
But there’s one part of aging that I especially want no part of—menopause.
Once in a while, I get these books from work on how to live better. I’ve already confessed that I am a Self-Help Book Junkie. I swear, these are like little massages and pep talks for your brain. But I got one on early menopause and man, does this sound like a party I want to miss.
For example, here’s some highlights from the Menopause Book:
• Hormone Therapy: Ok, I can’t even be on the Pill without going a little crazy. How am I going to manage all this estrogen and progesterone and whatever testosterone I have left without blowing someone’s brains out? “Unfortunately, this sometimes (okay, a lot of the time) requires some trial and error.” If menopause was a guy’s problem, they’d have the right drugs sandwiched with the Viagra in some sort of super-fantastic-feeling-boner pill. It would also probably boost the kind of self-esteem that deludes 57-year-old jackholes to go to Vegas and start hitting on hot 20-somethings. Unfortunately, side effects for women include “nausea, headaches, breast tenderness, increased blood pressure and weight gain” and not blowing Timmy’s college fund on strippers.
• Mood swings. Hot flashes. Sleep disturbances. Night sweats. Loss of bladder control. Bones weakening. Breaking hips. This all sounds just awesome.
• Depression! My favorite!
• Ok, here’s the worst part—vaginal dryness. “The lining of the vagina is pink, plump, and juicy when it is full of estrogen. But when the estrogen level starts to fall, the lining grows thinner and makes sex less enjoyable.” But fear not, lovely ladies, you can do shit like eat more Vitamin E and avocadoes and lube up when you’re ready to crawl into that Cialis bathtub and get it on.
• And guess what, bitches? There ain’t no medicine for you to increase libido quite yet! So suck on that, says Medical Establishment.
Anyway, if I could just cruise through the next 40 or so odd years of my life as is, no fucking shit, I would happily drop dead when my number was called. Then again, maybe not. Maybe this is why you get the Slow Fade—your life is starting to suck so much that you’re just praying to die.
However, I am a long, long ways off from this nightmare. I know I’ll probably go down swinging, like Sonny Liston, if I can, drinking Templeton Rye on my porch, sweating from my hot flashes and wiping my forehead off with pages from my First Communion Bible.
But if my hot sexy-time dream with Eric from “True Blood” last night is any indication that’s still a ways off. I swear, that fucker could suck me dry, I wouldn’t give a fuck. And, as I am AB positive, which is extremely rare, and consume enough organic veggies and top-shelf liquor to juice me up proper, he’d probably get a decent meal out of it, too.
See that? See how I just started by bitching about my mom, then wrote about a Very Uncomfortable Subject, then just completely brought it back around again to pop culture and sex? That’s called talent, people.