Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Dear Miss Flo,

You will have to forgive me for not using the more familiar “Auntie” title, but I’m not feeling all that charitable toward you these days. Let me say right from the giddy-up that it isn’t anything personal, it’s just that, well, WHY ARE YOU HERE?? Again? So Soon? And more stridently, STILL? What, did Frances in Kansas fete you with tainted beef?

I don’t understand. Last year you were sparse, nearly to the point of being rare. I was giddily hoping (again, nothing personal, mind you) that I’d seen the last of you. It HAS been a long, long time. Still, I remember your first visit as though it were yesterday. THAT was a day filled with mixed emotions. Boy/Girl, Girl/Woman, what the fuck, who the fuck? Mom seemed thrilled until it truly dawned on her what your visits really meant for me, “her little girl.” Her trying to watch me like a hawk kicked into overdrive that first summer.

I was barely eleven. All I wanted was to jump rope, play ball, and ride my bike around the world.

Now understand, there were some reckless days in my very late teens, early twenties when I wanted nothing more than to see you EVERY MONTH, like clockwork. I welcomed you with open arms, prepared a nice comfy spot to stay. You were kinder, gentler then. Hanging out for 2, 3 days tops and then on to the next assignment. It was, to my mind, the way it should be.

But ever since I hit forty-five, you’ve been on some kind of rampaging tear. I don’t remember who recorded that song, “Heavy Fallin’ Out” but that’s exactly what I feel like many of months. And yes, you have eased up the throttle a bit, and even disappear for months at a time. And then slam, bam, ma’am, DAMN, there you are again, not like clockwork and not at all welcome.

Flo, I’m a stone’s throw from 50 years old. FIFTY! And while some women my age may be holding on with clenched fists to their woman-hood, still feeling the want, desire to re-produce, please HEAR THIS: I AM NOT ONE OF THEM Don’t get me wrong, I love being a woman and I loved being able to give birth (well, maybe not the actual child birthing part, that shit hurt—but the idea, and certainly the reality of the actual child) not once, but twice…and for all those who want, but can’t, my heart goes out to them, but I am not that woman. The factory is closed, out of business. Or if you prefer, closed for re-tooling.

I know it is nature and I confess, I should grin and bear; that when the time comes to cease, you will. But, I just don’t feel that charitable. I want you gone. Today. And if not today, make this visit the last. I beseech you. Don’t make me call Frances!

Regards,

Deborah

11 comments:

  1. Great post! I also reached puberty at 11 and thought I was bleeding to death from a wound I didn't want to show anyone because my mother hadn't mentioned this indignity to me.

    It's a fact that women who start early end late while those who start late end early. You would think Nature would equalize things, but apparently her math skills are below par.

    I sincerely wish you the freedom you've earned.

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  2. Flo is a totally unpredictable bitch and I'll be glad when she's gone.

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  3. I feel your pain. The indignity of it all. She should leave both of us the hell alone. Because we have earned it.

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  4. Yep, happened to me on the plane back from South Africa. Months had passed and she just decides it would be fun to visit on an 11 hour plane flight. Good times.

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  5. I went through menopause at 47 and I admit that I was good and ready for it. Like you, I was totally weirded out that last few years. I would go months with nothing, not a drop and then...WHAM.....I would suddenly bleed so heavily that I thought I would surely faint or something. I mean, how can one woman go through a heavy pad and a super tampon AN HOUR for days on end and still stay alive? I know, tmi..but I was just amazed at myself. When it finally disappeared forever, I was fine with the hot flashes. They were baby cakes compared to um...bleeding like a pig.

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  9. frokostordning? mmmmkay

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  10. eb: I saw frokostordining in my email and thought? what tha...is she drunk blogging? Again?
    LOL I'd forgotten to delete the Anon...the frokostordining one I missed altogether. Sheesh. What's with these robots?

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  11. This post is most excellent. The menopause is a bitch, for sure.

    As someone who was 11 when the Auntie started visiting and 44 when she started saying her goodbyes, I'm SERIOUSLY hoping that the last time she visited 9 months ago was the Last Time Ever. I have the saggy boobs, wrinkly hands, and baggy eyes of the post-menopausal woman - let me think I've EARNED it, already! :)

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