Over the course of my adult life, I admit to spending a lot of time in bars, and loving almost every minute of it. Not so much these days, but when I was younger and single, I was kind of a bar whore fly. I loved bars. The darker and smellier the better, as far as I was concerned. Give me a pitcher of beer and a pile of quarters for the jukebox, and I was in heaven. To this day, the sticky, beer-infused odor that floats out of the open door of a bar as I (usually) walk on by puts a smile on my face.
Almost always, when I would walk into one of these fine establishments, there would be someone, usually a man, sitting at the end of the bar. He was often by himself, maybe reading a newspaper or trying to chat with the bartender. As the night (or afternoon, because day drinking is THE BEST!) wore on, he would get progressively more drunk, and sometimes more annoying. Maybe he would try to engage with my friends and me, which was usually a failure, unless he stood a round of beers for the group. Then he could maybe stay a bit, until he put his arm around someone and inevitably tried for the side-boob grab. Go back to your stool, buddy. By the end of the night, he became a real pain in the ass and everyone hated him.
Let me tell you something: my period is now the drunk from the bar. The lights just came on, and it’s closing time. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here, a**hole.
Enough. My period has served its purpose, and I have two lovely children to prove it. I’m done. So, can we part as friends, Mother Nature? Can you just leave it at that? It’s not me, it’s you, by the way. You’re being kind of a jerk. I am not using my period anymore, can’t you just take it back? Give it to somebody who needs it? Can’t I just donate everything?
I’M SICK OF IT!!!!! I am tired of the inconvenience, the discomfort, and the need for supplies in every corner of my life. I have done my time in the period department for 37 years. If I retired from a job after less time, I’d get a gold watch, dammit. All I’m getting right now is five days of misery every month because – and pay attention if no one has told you this yet – it gets worse as you get older. Worse. The drunk from the corner is getting drunker and more annoying every single month. Plus louder. He’s yelling now. He’s such a jackass.
They keep telling me it will end, that the bouncer will step in and throw the drunk out on his ear. It does not end. Either the bouncer’s off getting some action in the alley, or the stupid bar is staying open all night with a free keg, because my period/the annoying drunk refuses to leave. Month after miserable month it shows up, regardless of how many times I whine and stomp my feet in the OB/GYN office. I never even get to skip a month, which I have heard happens sometimes at my advanced age. It gets no shorter, no lighter, no less reliable. Just like the drunk that comes in every night after work. You don’t want to see him, but there he is.
For me, the full onslaught of menopause is lurking out there, somewhere just around the shadowy corners or up the road apiece. I would like it to get here, introduce itself as the red-headed stepchild of life that I anticipate it to be, and get going. That way, it can take my stupid period when it goes. It’s time for the drunk to leave.
This post was first published at Call The Midlife.
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