Have been thinking a lot about hormones recently and how they have played neither a useful nor ornamental role in my life. Now as I continue on my downward spiral towards 50 they’re supposedly starting a long, lingering, am-dram style death that could eventually result in me buying tickets to see Menopause: The Musical with my girlfriends and talking to my doctor about dryness.
I popped into the chemist yesterday to get some allergy tablets and this garish poster was looming large on the counter.
It’s for a hideous sounding evening called ‘Wine, Women and Hormones’. What a dreadful combination. Take any two of those items and it’s bad enough but all three? You can bill it as an evening of wine, learning and fun, but it’s just going to be wine, women and whinging.
Especially given the location, which essentially means the audience will be a bunch of Lakeway size 0 ‘yummy mummies’ in their 30’s in LuluLemon stretch evening wear that emphasizes their thigh gap who can’t wait to bitch about their kids (“so adorable but they ruin your body”) and their husbands (“so rich but fat and ugly”) while hoping to score a tube of something that instantly dissolves the calories in a glass of wine and boosts their libido enough that they don’t have to down the whole bottle to face having sex.
The only saving grace for this event is that the presentations are given by Dr Tracy Strandhagen and Dr Candace Thrash. If there were any doubt that I married the perfect man for me, they were erased when Erik’s first words when I showed him the name were “Dr Candida Thrush”. And yes, this is coming from the man whose last name is Kuntz. 
Thank goodness we have no kids and are therefore not required to be anyone’s role model. Except for the Riley dog. But Erik spends more time with her than I do. And she certainly didn’t learn to eat cat poop from me.
But back to moaning about my ‘mones because they really are nasty little bastards. They give you raging acne when you’re a teenager; cause weird clingy/mopey behavior when you’re pregnant; and make you a selfish and unsupportive friend for at least the first 10 years of your kid’s life. And then they can’t even die with dignity. I can only hope that mine will be a little more British and will drop off quietly without making eye contact or creating a huge (Menopause: The Musical) song and dance about it.
I’ve been fearing that the end is nigh for the past few months. You can’t pass a needle between my thigh gap, let alone a whole camel* and I’ve been feeling a lot more physically and mentally exhausted in my workouts. Erik’s dad recently posted on Facebook that he feels the mirror image of his chronological age. That’s a lovely sentiment when you’re 73. When you’re saying the same thing at 48, not so much.
I wasn’t even at the doctor’s office for any of this. I went to get x-rayed for a possible wrist and little finger fracture. In the only good news that came out of that visit, I do not have a wrist or finger fracture. But I may well have rheumatoid arthritis, or gnarly-finger-syndrome as I believe it is was originally known (in much the way that seabass is really called Patagonian Toothfish). More on that exciting news on Friday.
While complaining to my doc about how I couldn’t lift as much weight as I used to, but subtly using this as an opportunity to brag about exactly how much weight a 48 year old woman can lift, he suggested I might need a bit of extra testosterone.
To anyone that I’ve told this to so far, there is at best an amused look at the idea that I might be lacking testosterone. Which makes me want to punch them in their smug face. But I had the brilliant fleeting vision of total Gallant bad-arsery in the LIFT gym without having to work very hard (my top goal for 2014). I could be the Lance Armstrong of Travis County Strength. But first I had to get blood drawn to check all my levels, after which they would supercharge my blood and put it back in.** The results just came back. All normal. Every single stupid hormone is still floating around in there so my testosterone shots are denied. Thanks a bunch you useless jerks, you’re officially all dead to me.
*This has something to do with the bible.
**Victory Medical does not currently offer this service.