Men don't realize, but even in this era of share everything, we women still manage to hold back, hoping to preserve what little dignity and privacy we have left. As the only woman in a home of four males, I really, really cling to that, whether it's hiding my unmentionables in the laundry or that moment at night when I know I don't have to see anyone but Jay again until the morning and can FINALLY ditch the boob-strangling bra. Whatever the case, nothing keeps us further from the opposite sex than the fact that we create, grow, and then Exorcist-like expel our own children with almost the same body God gave the men, except while their balls are visible and wimpy, ours are invisible and much, much stronger.
So fast forward almost 2 decades, and at the ripe old age of "40 is the new 30!"*, I discover my PCOS has turned me into Nightmare Hormone Girl From Hell (not to be confused with my alter ego, The Queen), my ovaries have gone haywire, and, oh yeah, my ass broke.
*Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. So I'm not 40, but I'm 30, which is the new 20, so I'm 20, which is still 20 'cuz a 20-year-old can't be 10 obviously, but now I have no idea how old I really am, and is that because I'm old and forgetful or I just don't know what 40 is?
Pregnant women think they're so well prepared for every possible ick moment after reading all the pregnancy bibles out there. Sorry to spoil the ending, but it's all bullshit. For one thing, if your water does break, it CAN be a huge, embarrassing, river of fluid and shame. My water broke with two of my pregnancies, and it was Scooby Doo slipping on a banana peel floodage. For another thing, they also don't tell you that - HELLO! - your pregnancy can (and apparently did in my case) break your ass by weakening the muscles through your pelvic area, including the walls between your different girlie organs. It turns out you spend your whole early mommy years worrying that any teensy mistake you make could result in raising the next Norman Bates, but sometimes it's not always the fault of the parent. Sometimes the children really ARE to blame.
Anyway, I find that not only have my children given me plenty of mental pain since they were born, they also apparently broke shit on the way out. It's pretty sad when you're at the uro-gynecologist (the fun version of OB/GYN for old people - more stirrups, less chit chat) and they start asking a laundry list of questions like Did you ever experience ____ during a pregnancy? or Did ____ ever happen during a pregnancy? and I discover my answers are less yes and no and more like, "For question 12, pregnancy #1 exactly. For question 18, that was #2, and somehow #3 managed to do all of the above." Though a pregnant woman's body is a temple, apparently that memo doesn't make it to the little future God or Goddess temporary tenant inside. Obviously I'm not getting THAT deposit back!
For my visit, I was instructed to enjoy a Fleet enema. First, I didn't even know how to buy one. I found it easy enough at the drug store, but then my money-saving mentality kicked in and I got confused. One says it's got mineral oil. Is that better or is the standard issue good enough? Do I buy the Fleet brand? The CVS brand is 50 cents cheaper. Is it an ok substitute like generic aspirin, or is it a bad substitute like generic Frosted Flakes? Is this really the place to be saving pennies? What about the one that has 50% more free? Do I need 50% more? More free is always good, isn't it? Mineral oil, no mineral oil. Mineral oil, no mineral oil. It just seems like something nice added in, like when condoms say they're ridged for her comfort (they're not), but in this particular scenario, I can't imagine oil is something I really need.
See? I'm barely 40 and I shouldn't be anywhere NEAR the enemas, but thanks to my children, here I am. Even better, my surgery is scheduled for the day after....wait for it.....it's just perfect....
Labor Day. Isn't that a kick in the broken ass?
1. I'm sure you just can't wait to see how this all plays out.
2. No one has immunity from being the butt of my jokes (no pun intended), even if once in a while that butt is mine.
