Middle Age is a Wicked Thing

If I am considered middle-aged at 52, then I should expect to live to 104. That scares me to pieces, and quite frankly, things are changing faster than I can keep up with now without adding longevity into the mix. I can’t figure out the warped sense of humor in certain things, like why my eye sight is going now that I have more chin hairs to pluck than a chinchilla in mid-winter? Along with that, whose great idea was it that my daughter would be in the throes of puberty while I’m in peri-menopause? It’s like the wild kingdom in our house between the hair growth and the alpha female syndrome.

I keep expecting our house to blow up, up, up, over the neighborhood in some kind of hormonal explosion. Yep, news at 11, menopausal mom and teen lock horns, details will follow. The fuse can be lit by the simplest of topics. Never, evah ask your teen daughter, “Are you wearing that?” especially just before she walks out the door to go to school. These things seem to happen when I’m in the middle of a hot flash (really Mama, you could have told me), and all I want to do is run and hide. To top all of that off, we’ve lost our lives to the high school band, four-year-old soccer games and homework which makes it seem impossible on some days to have a remotely normal schedule. Dinner, we found, became one of the first casualties of the “new” schedule. They say you should eat all of your meals sitting down, and I do…in my car. It’s the only place where I have time to sit these days, except for the sidelines at the football and soccer games.

That’s a real gourmand’s nightmare too. You can get your hot dog with, or WITH OUT chili and your choice of beverage is soda, or soda. Yum. No wonder my hips are taking up more and more space on the bleachers. I had hoped that at this point, Losing Mary would be losing more pounds. My intentions are always stellar, but the follow through gets muddled with everyday life, hormones and chin plucking. I’ve heard the “you should plan your day better,” and “carry a meal with you to the games,” and while that advice is sound, it’s hard to carry a meal when the high school won’t allow “external food.”

Now, just what the dickens is external food? They’re talking about my love handles, I just know it. And who named them love handles anyway? It used to be that I could zip up a pair of jeans and rush out the door, but now, these, these, things! They just pop over the top of my jeans and flop over like whale blubber hanging off a ship. And who invented these hipster jeans? I don’t know if the blubber is popping over or getting ready to slide off into the sea. So here I am, caught in a tizzy, middle-aged, menopausal with a teen, a four-year-old and a hubby. If you see me coming, run. I’m armed with tweezers and a magnifying mirror, fanning the flames of hot flashes while following the band, and whimpering in the face of middle age. I tell ya, if that don’t scare you, nothing will. Full story at 11. Amen.