Don't Mind Me

I don’t mean to complain but…

Oh yes I do.

Walter said to me the other night, while a mutual friend and I sat in the kitchen complaining about menopause, Men get menopause, too.

I said, listen, when you bleed a bucket full of blood in twenty minutes? And are still alive? Give me a call. Until then? I don’t think growing hair on your back and in your ears is really the same.

Men have no idea. None. Zero. To equate the lack of testosterone, the inevitable drop in erections that follows to hot flashes, irregular sleep and outrageously heavy periods? Please. Some Viagra, a red sports car and you're all better.

When Jeanine brought me yet two more Advil this morning, she said, Oh, poor sweetie. It must be awful.

Mind you, this is the woman who when pregnant was certain no woman in the universe had been as miserable as she was. That meant me, too. Sure, she’s kind today. But when it’s her turn? Watch out.

I keep thinking about my high school volleyball coach. When anyone on the team complained about having cramps and being unable to play? Or more specifically, run wind sprints? She would bark, It’s not that bad ladies. Get out there and run! It’ll make you feel better.

Yuh. I don’t think so.

What I want is a red tent, some moss, and a group of women to wail with.

Or at least plot to overthrow the medical research system that works on cures for men and generally ignores women.

That will make me feel better.