Wow.
I thought I was meaner than a snake when I had PMS.
But I've discovered that PMS was just a little warm-up session.
Now that I'm in the midst of the miserable, maniacal M (menopause), I have turned into Satan's twin sister, Sizzlin' Sally.
I am surprised that my head doesn't sometimes spin around while I puke green stuff ... re-enacting a scene from “The Exorcist,” starring me ... the chick with the guttural growl.
Oh yeah, I'm a witch alright. And I am burning rubber, flying around on my broom, which has a Harley-Davidson engine.
I've got the potty mouth, the hot flashes and the bionic hearing to prove that I am one bad mama menopause.
A few days ago I was in the company of a male who continuously smacked his lips as he chewed.
Well, he did this happy snapping until I reached over and pinched those lips together ’til they turned blue.
I can't stand slurping or snorting, either.
Pop your gum around me and I will perform the Heimlich maneuver on you until you either spit it out or choke on it. I promise I won't care which one happens first.
If you're of the other gender, don't you dare tell me you wouldn't be in a bad mood about the big M.
Just try to survive one day in this female train-wreck-of-a-body, especially when a hot flash makes it possible for someone to touch my sweaty red forehead with their cigarette when they need a light.
I can't sleep more than 20 minutes at a time. I lose everything. I can remember absolutely nothing.
And I'm constantly worried about waking up one morning with a beard.
That's right.
Facial hair.
I don't think I'd look any better with sideburns than I would with a five-o clock shadow.
And it's also a hassle to continuously check my back and ears for spurts of hair.
Some body parts are moving higher. My waistline, for example, is now only four inches below my chin.
But while my waistline heads closer every day toward my ears, other parts of the anatomy are falling.
Yeah, my butt cheeks flap around on the backs of my legs.
Other uncomfortable changes are taking place, too. My knees look like the hind ends of two wrinkle dogs. And the two bald spots on my scalp make me look like I've got mange.
A woman must have nerves of steel to go through menopause.
You have to stop caring who you scare to death with sudden strip shows. You can't care who sees you stick your head in the freezer, either.
And there's no time to feel guilty when you threaten several people every day with bodily harm.
On the best good day, I'm able to keep my clothes on in the company of others and sweetly pour the ice cube trays down the front of my blouse instead of streaking toward the closest water hose.
That yellow tape embroidering my front door is there for a reason, pal.
Proceed with caution. Enter at your own risk.
And don't mind my facial tic.
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.
I thought I was meaner than a snake when I had PMS.
But I've discovered that PMS was just a little warm-up session.
Now that I'm in the midst of the miserable, maniacal M (menopause), I have turned into Satan's twin sister, Sizzlin' Sally.
I am surprised that my head doesn't sometimes spin around while I puke green stuff ... re-enacting a scene from “The Exorcist,” starring me ... the chick with the guttural growl.
Oh yeah, I'm a witch alright. And I am burning rubber, flying around on my broom, which has a Harley-Davidson engine.
I've got the potty mouth, the hot flashes and the bionic hearing to prove that I am one bad mama menopause.
A few days ago I was in the company of a male who continuously smacked his lips as he chewed.
Well, he did this happy snapping until I reached over and pinched those lips together ’til they turned blue.
I can't stand slurping or snorting, either.
Pop your gum around me and I will perform the Heimlich maneuver on you until you either spit it out or choke on it. I promise I won't care which one happens first.
If you're of the other gender, don't you dare tell me you wouldn't be in a bad mood about the big M.
Just try to survive one day in this female train-wreck-of-a-body, especially when a hot flash makes it possible for someone to touch my sweaty red forehead with their cigarette when they need a light.
I can't sleep more than 20 minutes at a time. I lose everything. I can remember absolutely nothing.
And I'm constantly worried about waking up one morning with a beard.
That's right.
Facial hair.
I don't think I'd look any better with sideburns than I would with a five-o clock shadow.
And it's also a hassle to continuously check my back and ears for spurts of hair.
Some body parts are moving higher. My waistline, for example, is now only four inches below my chin.
But while my waistline heads closer every day toward my ears, other parts of the anatomy are falling.
Yeah, my butt cheeks flap around on the backs of my legs.
Other uncomfortable changes are taking place, too. My knees look like the hind ends of two wrinkle dogs. And the two bald spots on my scalp make me look like I've got mange.
A woman must have nerves of steel to go through menopause.
You have to stop caring who you scare to death with sudden strip shows. You can't care who sees you stick your head in the freezer, either.
And there's no time to feel guilty when you threaten several people every day with bodily harm.
On the best good day, I'm able to keep my clothes on in the company of others and sweetly pour the ice cube trays down the front of my blouse instead of streaking toward the closest water hose.
That yellow tape embroidering my front door is there for a reason, pal.
Proceed with caution. Enter at your own risk.
And don't mind my facial tic.
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.
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