…make or break you in so many ways it’s hard not to laugh when the going gets tough, although I’ve recently discovered that at my age this kind of laughter can also significantly increase your chances of accidentally pissing down your own leg at the most inopportune time.
When hormones are raging, as in you actually still have some, it’s likely the time when we’re ready to hatch those little parasites…er…I mean those sweet little angels we call our children.
Oh yes, I remember those glory days when my skin was taut and flawless, and full of elasticity. My hair was shiny, the aging spots had yet to surface, and I could usually bounce back from whatever came my way as far as my body went.
Now that I’ve surpassed that time I only use the term elasticity when shopping for pants, as in “do these come with an elastic waistband?” or “how much give does this spandex shit really have?”
I no longer try not to acknowledge that bounce in my step because I know that ‘that bounce’ is usually just my softer, rounder fat ass trying to stay contained in my hip low-cut jeans.
After seeing my gynecologist and trying out the estrogen gel I knew things would eventually be okay. Even though they hadn’t kicked in yet I was by no means ready to throw in the towel.
Some say I’ve got the patience of a saint. These of course, are the same people who never see me behind closed doors. Let’s face it, if I had reality camera’s rolling in our house 24/7 one of us, probably me, would likely be carted away to some nice freshly painted white walled facility by some kind of uber polite uniformed professional.
After chewing on this hormone thing I decided to investigate my options. I’d heard so much about bio-identical hormones I started asking all my girl friends if they’d ever tried it, and as it turns out, nearly all of them went bio-identical. I jumped on board and starting making some calls.
Turns out that there are not too many people who specialize in it, and those who do are booked so far in advance it takes months of waiting till you can go see them. But again, this is where my patience pays off. I book an appointment for, WTF, two months down the road.
My GYN is not big on these homeopathic solutions, she thinks they’re a bunch of hoey-baloey because pharmaceutical hormones are an exact science in her mind, but that did not deter me. I was not going to let her rain on my parade. Of course now all I had to do was convince her to send my blood test results to this new gal so I wouldn’t have to revisit that hideous blood drawing experience any time soon. Two arm wrestles later–I won!
I’m glad I jumped on this right away because as it turns out, my body was not absorbing the gel like it should have. All the death glares I was shooting out like ray vision in a sci-fi movie brought on by my estrogen depletion should have been the first hint that something was amiss. I now, single-handedly, had the ability to empty a room in less than three seconds just by making my presence known.
Tick tock, tick tock!
Anticipating this consultation was nearly enough to kill me as I counted the weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds until I could walk into this appointment demanding to be fixed.
Being ever the resourceful woman I am however, I came up with the perfect solution to throw whatever was or was not happening in my body off-balance.
I discovered that the Agave plant has medicinal qualities.
That last day before my appointment seemed to crawl along like a snail trying to maneuver up a greased hill. I paced, I sat, I read, I surfed the net till my fingertips were raw. I kept looking at the clock hoping it would hit my bewitching hour and I could crawl into bed so I could stop all this waiting nonsense.
6:17 & 1/2
This was not going well so I turned my attention back to that Agave .
By eight o’clock that night me and that little worm at the bottom of the bottle were having a perfectly normal conversation.
“Swim you little bastard,” I’d chant.
“No, no señora, I am dead. I no can swim no more,” he’d reply.
“Bastard,” I’d say leaning in closer to the bottle trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or not.
I guess I should’ve read the warning label on the back of the bottle.
“This product can produce hallucinatory side effects.”
…as in one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, FLOOR!
Finally, morning rolls around. It’s ‘THE DAY’! My head is pounding and I have this weird recollection of speaking to the dead.
Regardless of my self-induced hangover, I shower, dress, jump in the car and head out to my appointment.
“Good morning,” I say. “I’m Jacqui, I’m here to see the doctor.”
“Just have a seat, she’ll be with you shortly,” she says.
“Is she running on time?” I query.
“Um…she’s actually not here yet,” she replies.
“What?” I say.
“You’re forty-five minutes early,” she says pointing to the clock.
I look at her clock and then at my watch.
Crap! Then it dawns on me that’s why I got such a good parking spot.
I read through every magazine in the office as my ADD kicks in.
Finally the door next to the receptionist opens and I hear them call my name.
I step through the doors expecting to feel some sort of magical transformation. I don’t know why homeopathy makes me feel this way, it just does. I follow her down the hall to a teeny-weeny room. She tells me to sit down. Tells me the doctor will be right in. Tells me to relax.
I survey the room and wonder where the etherial music is. Where are the healing crystals I expected to see? Where is that magical aura I was expecting? Where the fuck was the doctor?
Ten minutes later in walks this blonde bombshell. The white coat tells me she must be the doctor but I’m still awed by the fact that she looks like a movie star. I try to sit up straighter but remnants of my self-induced hangover keep me slumped over like a dog out of treats.
“Good Morning,” she says with enough perk in her voice to command global peace.
“Grrrrrrrr….” is the only response that leaves my lips. I’m wondering why she’s so happy and why she’s talking so loud but of course I realize it’s only because I’m hungover.
She leafs through the paperwork I’ve filled out, then scans my blood test results.
“Oh…” she says taking a step or two back.
“Can you fix me,” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she says.
A slew of questions later she explains how she’s going to treat me.
“We’re going to give you estrogen,” she says then writes something in my file. “How’s your sex life,”
“My sex life?” I ask.
“Yeah, how’s your sex life?” she says again.
“What sex life?” I respond.
“You know…the one where you have sex,” she says.
“Oh, that sex life…mmmmm….!” I say needing to think this through for a minute. “It’s, you know…”
“How’s your libido, your sex drive, do you want to have sex?” she asks.
“Are you asking me if I want to have sex with you,” I respond a little shocked by her brevity.
“No, not with me, with your husband,” she says.
“Oh,” I say feeling a little rush of embarrassment course through my body. I’m surprised she didn’t add ‘you idiot’ to the end of her sentence.
“Libido’s not too good,” I tell her. “Can you fix that too?”
“Of course I can,” she says writing a note in my file. “You need testosterone.”
She begins to explain how this chemical works in the female body and I’m thinking, hell yes, I’m totally game for this.
“There’s a few side affects,” she says.
“Side affects,” I say. “Like what.”
“Well…you might grow a few stray hairs here and there,” she says.
“Stray hairs?” I say.
“Yeah like on your face,” she says. “Sometimes other places.”
My hand impulsively shoots up to my face. My fingers start rubbing that spot under my chin where I am constantly plucking out a couple of very coarse, very dark hairs.
“How many stray hairs? I ask.
“Maybe just a few, maybe a lot,” she says.
I have this sudden urge to pull open my shirt so I can see my boob, the one that loves to cohabit with a tiny group of strays. I try to picture my nipple wearing a toupee and this disturbs me.
“Are we talking shaving or plucking hair amounts?” I query.
“There’s a possibility of both,” she says.
“Oh,” I say.
As she starts reading my file again, I reach into my purse and find my glasses so I can see her better. This is when I notice several incredibly long hairs dancing around under her chin. I lean in to get a better look and see several more wisps on her cheeks. I realize by the looks of things, she’s a natural blonde.
“Do you take testosterone?” I ask.
“Yes I do,” she says still purusing my file. “My husband said he didn’t care if I started looking like Wolfman Jack, just so long as I wanted to have sex.”
“Ohhhh…!” I say.
As though she can feel my eyes burning into her skin she turns and looks at me.
“Why do you ask?” she says.
“Umm…no reason, just wondering,” I answer trying to divert my attention away from the imaginary neon arrow I see pointing to these outgrowths on her face.
“Will it make me…you know…horny?” I ask.
“It should if the dosage is right.” she says. “A lot of clients say that it works for them, but…”
“But what?” I ask.
“They say that they want to do everyone but their husband,” she says smiling.
“I’ll prescribe both,” she says. “You should get them in three or four days. They come from a lab in Phoenix.”
Crap! More waiting for me. Oh well, everything in its time I think.
…to be continued!