There are Girl Scout cookies on the counter. That wouldn't be odd except for the fact that I'm at the OB/GYN office for my dreaded annual check-up. Dr. B has cartons and cartons of thin mints, peanut butter patties, lemonades and shortbread on display in the waiting room. How incredibly cruel. In a few short minutes I will be expected to step on the scale. In the meantime, I'm forced to sit here within arms length of a bazillion calories.
At least the waiting room is not crowded. It's just me and a couple of drug company reps. Normally, there would be pregnant women and nervous teenagers sitting here with me but not today. I'm at the end of the spectrum and I know it. That's not good. That's not bad. It just is what it is. I'm not the nervous teenager seeking birth control, and I'm not the nervous mother-to-be wondering what it's like to give birth. I'm the 54-year-old woman who has been there, done that. What's next?
I know what's next. I'm in the middle of what's next. Hot flashes, night sweats, insomnia, mood swings, mental confusion and worse. Menopause. Even the word kind of makes me cringe. I've researched it, I've lived it. Been there, still doing that. How much longer does my body and mind have to go through this? Dr. B can't answer me. I knew she couldn't, but I asked anyway. She asks me a ton of intimate questions so I have no problem asking her one question.
Her questions never change. Year in, year out the questions are the same. But wait, she just threw me a curveball. In quick succession, she asked me if I use recreational drugs and if I use a seatbelt. Wait. What the hell? Is she serious? Is she messing with me? It was all I could do to keep from cracking up. Instead I said yes I do an eight-ball of heroin a day and no I don't use a seatbelt because that's how a gangsta rolls. She wasn't amused.
I was messing with her, obviously. How gangsta do I look in this light-blue paper gown? How gangsta do I look with my feet in stirrups? Actually, I'm pretty gangsta. All kidding aside, Dr. B has no idea that I stole half of the crap in her bathroom. I was in there for awhile because I cannot pee when I'm told that I have to pee in a cup. I simply cannot do it. Instead, I sat there and looked at all the magazines she had in an attractive basket. She also had a nice selection of feminine products, soaps, magic markers, moist towelettes and body butter. I'm not sure why she had body butter in her bathroom, but I helped myself to a generous portion.
Menopause will turn even the saintliest woman into a gangsta, and I ain't never been a saint if ya know what I mean. I'm a normal, regular, average woman. I can do twelve things at once. I can push a baby out of my body, not once but twice. I can cry and hug my friend when her mom dies. I can stand at my own mother's side and help her recover from a stroke. I can be there for my family in good times, and more importantly in bad times and that's pretty damn gangsta.