“It is better to live alone in the desert than with a crabby, complaining wife.”
Proverbs 21:19 (NLT)

It would seem that as of late, my clandestine dating relationship with menopause has turned into a much more serious affair than I had originally anticipated. Menopause and I have moved to the next stage of our affiliation and I’ve actually been kidnapped and forced to board The Change Train. What I assumed would be a short relaxing, meandering visit to the scenic back country with an occasional stop for lunch and souvenirs, has turned into a heart-stopping, roller coaster thrill ride complete with death-defying drops, twists and turns for which I’ve apparently been given an indefinite seasonal pass! I’m wearing the bracelet and my ticket has been punched!

Menopause or The Change is a debilitating malady that strikes only the elderly and infirmed female population (or so I was lead to believe). Our mother’s and grandmother’s spoke of The Change in hushed whispers as if it was a curse worse than the dreaded Pox. Over the years I’ve convinced myself that menopause is merely a state of mind easily controlled with just a smattering of common sense, good karma and a healthy supply of multi-vitamins. Why, I’ll probably skate right through The Change symptom free, proving to everyone that I’m a superior woman capable of controlling the whims of my flesh. Menopause will bow to my powerful will and my strong mind. I will control it – it will not control me! And besides … I’m years away from that! Or so I thought!

The first thing I noticed upon boarding The Change Train is that I was immediately fitted with a personal floatation device. Fastened about my mid-section is my new menopausal midriff – that spare tire of flesh hanging over my elastic waist pants necessary in the event of a sudden water emergency. The sudden water emergency seems to be caused by frequent urination due to falling bladders. The most pronounced consequence of falling bladders is an unpleasant side effect: you leak when you laugh and pee when you sneeze!

As expected, some of the early stops along The Change Train route have included Whisker Bay and Insomnia Island. At this stop we are booked at the Hot Flash Hotel where we’re treated to late night movies and an endless supply of reading material, which we peruse thanks to the glow radiating from over-heated body parts. Lucky me, my ears are the extremity of choice, which burn like satellite dishes heated in a flush of hot pink neon.

Of course, every itinerary includes brief, but frequent stops at the intersection of Weepy Way and Moody Junction where all passengers disembark for an afternoon pity party and a soul cleansing cry for no good reason. During this stop Satan surgically implants menopausal minions in our subconscious minds that continually batter our self-esteem and self-confidence. However, a little window shopping in Moody Junction reveals that the only way to silence the menopausal minions is by ingesting massive doses of Oreos taken orally –every four to six hours as needed.

The Change Train is a journey few men understand or care to ever comprehend. However, the one thing most men will vehemently agree on with regards to The Change Train journey is we women must not linger at Celibate Station. Quite honestly though, I say that with so many day trips to Cranky Town, a lengthy stopover at Celibate Station is a welcome and necessary respite. Men are united in their solidarity to boycott Celibate Station, because after all – the majority of heterosexual men all have a one-track mind –don’t they?

My most important discovery along The Change Train journey occurred this past weekend. I learned that there are two very important items to carry in your overnight case for such an unpredictable voyage. First, be sure to have large quantities of chocolate available throughout your trip – because let’s face it … chocolate makes everything better. And secondly, be sure to pack your sense of humor. You’re going to need it! Menopause can leech the joy from your life if you let it – so be sure to laugh along the way.

And last but not least - if you can - invite your best gal pal to join you as your traveling companion. My friend, Debbie embarked at a different station, but our trains are running on the same track these days. We met up at Mount Misery this past weekend and aired our grievances, shared our sorrows and reassured each other that we aren’t traveling this perilous journey in solitary confinement.

A recent epiphany revealed to me the actual meaning of the Mrs. in front of my last name. I’m convinced it stands for: Menopause Really Sucks. That being the case – and since I’m being forced to jump on board this ride (even though I’ve insisted, “I’m not a ride person”), I’ve decided to make the best of it. So I invite all you ladies of that certain age, to board The Change Train with me. If we must go … let’s all go together! We’ll use the trip as an excuse (pfftt! Like we really need one), to lunch and socialize. We can buffet our battered spirits and damaged psyches by taking advantage of the miraculous recuperative and healing benefits of serious retail therapy. I would imagine even menopause is made better with a red-tag sale and B.O.G.O. shoes.

All aboard The Change Train girls! Next stop … Bloatsville. Make sure you pack your diuretics!

“Charm is deceptive, and beauty does not last; but a woman who fears the Lord will be greatly praised.” Proverbs 31:30 (NLT)

“Mercy, grace and peace … of these three, Lord - I pray for a never-ending supply! Amen.

“Don’t be concerned about the outward beauty that depends on fancy hairstyles, expensive jewelry, or beautiful clothes. You should be known for the beauty that comes from within, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is so precious to God.” 1 Peter 3: 3-4 (NLT)

It has come to my attention lately that I’ve started to get really comfortable in my dating relationship with Menopause. Although of late, the relationship has been very hot and cold … sort of an on again – off again kind of courtship. For a while there it looked like Menopause was getting ready to propose marriage to me and then … pfftt! Menopause came down with a sudden case of commitment phobia. But the damage has already been done at this point. Menopause and I have become very comfortable with each other – like old friends. So much so, I’ve noticed a definite slackening off of normal beauty regimens and regular “maintenance,” if you will. For instance, I actually have taken to making trips out in public sans make-up – me, the women who never used to walk as far as the mailbox without full-on facial war paint. I’ve crossed over to the dark side and adopted the “who cares, nobody’s looking at me anymore” way of thinking. It’s a little scary actually, almost like I’m standing on the very edge of an “eccentric old lady precipice.” The only thing that keeps me from taking that final leap off the cliff of my youth is a pair of elastic waist polyester pants and a tee shirt that says “Go ahead … ask me about my grandchildren!”

I noticed a definite shift in my attitude shortly after my last birthday when I added a zero to my age and entered a whole new decade. Yeesh! It was like something snapped, waking me from a coma. A real feminine identity epiphany. The awakening was twofold in nature. The first being of course, that I’m likely never going to weigh my ideal drivers license weight. Duh! Ya think??? (Oh don’t sit there getting all judgmental. I’d be willing to wager that there isn’t a woman under the age of 80 who hasn’t lied to the DMV at one time or another.) Secondly - at my age, I’ve long since exceeded the age where attractive strangers will offer appreciative glances, looks or wolf whistles at me. Although, let’s be honest, I’ve never really been that woman. No wait. I distinctly remember one day in 1976 and then there was one day during the summer of 1987. Oooh, those are both heady, intoxicating memories. A real ego boost, if you know what I mean. But other than those two days … I’ve never been that woman.

Naturally, I’m obligated to say that as a happily married Christian woman, I’ve never set out to intentionally be that kind of woman. That would be wrong on so many levels. But after all, I’m only human, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the fact that occasionally someone other than my husband finds me reasonably attractive. I imagine most women, Christian or not, would admit that it’s good for our feminine morale to be considered attractive once in a while by total strangers. And if there’s a woman out there who denies it, I say puh-lease, your pants are on fire! I can smell the smoke from here! (You know … liar, liar.)

The downward slide into what I now lovingly refer to as my “It’s okay to be frumpy” stage of life, is accompanied with a whole new frumpy wardrobe. I’ve taken a great liking to my sweatpants on a full-time basis. And I don’t just like my sweatpants, I L-O-V-E my sweatpants! In fact, if Menopause doesn’t pony up soon with a serious engagement offer, I’ve decided I’m going to marry my sweatpants! I own four loveable pairs of sweats. Two black – two blue. (The darker colors are more slimming, you know!) Three of them are made of the softest velour and one is your basic cotton/fleece, baggy sweats. I wear them practically everywhere these days. Sweats are great for errands. I figure if I’ve got to waste my valuable time running around doing a bazillion little time-consuming things, then I might as well wear something as fashionably close to pajamas as possible. Voila! Sweatpants, the perfect solution!

I’m glad to report, that so far at least, I’ve not forsaken the wearing of accessories or perfume. I still spritz my favorite fragrance behind my ears that are adorned with fashionable sparkly studs, so maybe all’s not lost yet! In all honesty, I must confess that it’s nice to finally have arrived at an age where spiritual maturity and wisdom matter more to me than the outer shell I’ve fussed and fought with all these years. I know who I am and who I’m not and it’s refreshing not to have to worry about playing those games any more … the ones that require females to pretend like we’re something we really aren’t. It’s not about impressing people by what we wear on the outside, but being comfortable in our skin. Inhale, one big deep breath and then … (sigh!) … exhale. Hallelujah … I’ve finally arrived. It’s okay to just be me!

Thank you, Lord for the wisdom attained with age. Wisdom is more precious than gold or silver. I’ve got enough gold in my teeth and silver in my hair to last me a lifetime, so feel free to pile on gobs of wisdom from here on out! Amen.

“I will lie down in peace and sleep, for you alone, O Lord, will keep me safe.” Psalm 4:8 (NLT)

I’ve been riding The Change Train of life for going on two years now, and apparently I’m no closer to reaching a final destination than when I first boarded the train. This gives me cause for great concern since The Change Train has been temporarily derailed for an indefinite period of time at my least favorite stop … Insomnia Island. It also appears there are no real plans to depart for other locations anytime in the near future.

Those short trips to Whisker Bay or Bloatsville … those I can live with. I don’t even mind the occasional day trip or even overnighter there. At least I can pack for those trips. A good pair of tweezers and a healthy dose of water pills and I could hang out for an extended period of time at either locale. But this unscheduled trip to Insomnia Island seems to be a whole amusement park that exists as a separate entity where I fear I am about to be elected Mayor – or at the very least … “Grand Pooh-Bah.”

The thing is, The Change Train itinerary fails to mention the inevitable transformation that takes place as a result of an extended stay at Insomnia Island. I was shanghaied two weeks ago for this current island-hopping foray and have been averaging little more than an hour of sleep each night. And I’m a girl who requires seven – nine hours of sleep per night, so that one measly hour here or there, is just not cutting it!

The Insomnia Island transformation comes complete with its very own zombie like version of my former self, making me feel like an extra in the movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, or as I like to refer to my new zombie self … Sybil. Sybil, is the character Sally Field played in the movie of the same name about a schizophrenic woman. Sybil has become my alter ego who not only has taken up residence inside my sleep-deprived body, but she’s made herself right at home and is currently remodeling. She’ll probably draw up plans to add on a whole new wing by week’s end. My Sybil self has a propensity for nastiness and doesn’t hesitate to give people a piece of her mind … what little she’s got left. My Sybil self has a tendency to babble uncontrollably in unintelligible sentences, forget what she was saying in the middle of a captivating story, and cry over stupid stuff like an empty toilet paper roll. There is no shortage of tears for really stupid mundane stuff like a particularly moving episode of The Andy Griffith Show – like when poor Opie couldn’t convince his dad that Mr. McBeavy was a real man and not an imaginary playmate. Oooh! That was a gut-wrenching episode!

My Sybil self really crossed the line yesterday when she showed up at the hair salon, rather than me. My Sybil self was particularly miffed with the current color of my hair and the annoying length of my “do,” which continually rested in my eyes and tickled the back of my neck. My hair is light brown and fashionably short, weaved with a delightful blend of blonde and caramel highlights. At least, it was until yesterday. Yesterday, my Sybil self left the salon with raven hair mixed with a few chestnut lowlights and cut so impossibly short, I now bear a striking resemblance to a black-haired Boy George on a really bad day. It’s quite frightening actually.

I’m beginning to see the validity to the “toothpick in the eyes” trick often practiced by Tom the cat from the old Tom and Jerry cartoons. This insomnia thing is about to make mincemeat of meat. I can no longer function properly. I don’t dare get behind the wheel of a car … a situation that requires that I have all my wits about me when wits are nowhere to be found. The sleeplessness has escalated to the point that I’ve even found myself questioning the existence of my Heavenly Father. Where are you God … why can’t I sleep? I’ve resorted to Tylenol PM, warm milk, a glass of wine, Ambien CR, counting sheep, meditation, and prayer etc. etc. etc. and nothing seems to work. My question is this … do women really survive menopausal insomnia? My poor husband is asking: do the men whose wives are suffering from menopausal insomnia survive? I speak from experience when I say there have been several nights in the past two weeks that I’ve wanted to smother my husband with his own pillow because he’s snoring obnoxiously loud as I toss and turn. It’s all so unfair! (I’m now starting to see that the whole separate bedroom thing for married couples can actually serve a valuable purpose for times such as menopause.)

For all the trouble this insomnia thing has caused, I’d gladly board The Change Train and make repeated trips to Bloatsville, Cranky Town or even Saggy Junction as long as they’ve got a warm bed and promise at least eight hours of uninterrupted REM sleep. (I wonder if I could sell my seat aboard The Change Train on eBay??? Did I mention that my Sybil self is a chronic complainer?) I guess for now, me and my Sybil self will have to ride this train all the way to the last stop. Most likely, you’ll find us in the Club Car porking up on Oreos and M&Ms. If we’re going to be stopping at Bloatsville, we may as well look the part!

Dear Lord I pray for peaceful rest tonight. All things are possible with you and I know my body can’t function much longer without proper sleep. I know you’re better than a sleeping pill and I put my trust in you. I also pray for all my menopausal sisters who are suffering as I am and ask for mercy for them. This too shall pass … please help us all to survive the menopausal journey! Amen.

“So God created people in his own image; God patterned them after himself; male and female he created them.” Genesis 1:27 (NLT)

Most days I believe these words with unswerving conviction. I would be remiss, however, if I didn’t acknowledge the simple truth that I am also created in my mother, father and grandparents images as well. For example, my short, squatty legs are my father’s, my small waistline and rounded hips – that’s all mom. My blue-green eyes – those are dad’s, while my deep, introspective thoughtful moodiness – again, my mother. The premature graying of my hair I blame my paternal grandmother for that. And from my maternal grandmother – well … from her, I inherited a moustache. Yes, that’s right, I said I’ve got my grandmother’s moustache. While Grandma Viviano’s moustache looks quite nice and natural … on my brother … my sister, my two daughters and I, are not nearly as thankful to have received such an inheritance.

In grandma’s defense, she had no say so in the gene pool she swam in, any more than I did. So I don’t actually blame poor grandma for the furry caterpillar hibernating on my top lip. While I suspect my facial fuzziness is due in large part to that genetic DNA thing, it’s also directly related to my recent boarding of The Change Train of life. The menopausal journey Mother Nature has forced me to take, is now making frequent and regular stops at Whisker Bay, creating the need for a ready supply of facial wax and a pair of pinpoint precision tweezers, until I can afford laser hair removal.

Perusing my magnified reflection a few days ago, much to my surprise and absolute horror, I discovered a black whisker growing half way up my cheek. My cheek, mind you! The moustache … the chin hairs, okay, I expected those. But my cheek, for crying out loud! What’s next … five o’clock shadow and Elvis sideburns? My best friend, Debbie (she’s two years my senior) called me several weeks back complaining of one solitary hair she plucked from her chin. One measly hair! My morning routine consists of a lap full of unwanted facial hair. Call me when your lap is full, girlfriend!

I must confess, there are times when I question the evolutionary process of life. I know I didn’t descend from apes … but did my relatives have to be such a hairy bunch? I suspect God possesses a certain sense of irony coupled with a unique sense of humor. My husband is descendant from tall Norwegian or Swedish ancestors. The poor guy couldn’t grow a moustache if his life depended on it – and his arms – nary a hair in sight. But, both my daughters … facial hair, arm hair … no problem. My son … not so much, just like his father. Sitting here stroking what I call my “kitty whiskers,” (those downy soft whiskers below my lower lip, but which are in fact, a fairly substantial “Fu Manchu,”) I wonder what cosmic joke Mother Nature and menopause will play on me next??? I’m a “glass half-full” kind of girl, which leads me to believe that as long as I’m riding The Change Train of life, Mother Nature will be supplying me with fodder to fuel my creative writing passions for quite some time to come! I know I should say, “Thanks Mom” but my introspective moody side wants to say, “Bite me, Mother!” What can I say except, I inherited my sarcastic biting wit from my father!

Dear Lord, thank you for a sense of humor that sustains me through the hard things in life, like menopause and a body out of control warring against itself! Amen

You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you because he trusts in you.” Isaiah 26:3 (CEV)

I’ve found lately I’ve had to work much harder at achieving that internal peace I so desire. I blame the unrest in my spirit on a certain clandestine dating relationship I’ve been involved in over the last ten months. My suitor? Menopause. Even though I’m certain I’m much too young to be involved in such a torrid affair, Menopause has been pursuing me relentlessly. I’m a long way from being married to Menopause, but I suspect by the end of next year we will at least make a long-term engagement commitment.

In the beginning, our relationship was quite casual. Menopause started waking me in the middle of the night and like an annoying relative who refuses to leave at the end of a party, Menopause would not let me be. It’s nearly impossible for me to meet my necessary nightly requirement of eight hours of sleep since Menopause has been courting me. The sleep deprivation has made it so much easier for Menopause to attack me in the area where I tend to be the most vulnerable … my emotional state of being.

Menopause has me experiencing a full spectrum of mood swings and meltdowns like a giant emotional pendulum wreaking havoc on my hormones and otherwise stable personality. In a matter of seconds I can go from crying over a sappy email to screaming at whoever forgot to load the dishwasher properly. There is no rhyme or reason and no logical explanation for my hormonal power surges. Life was simpler when I could blame my occasional lapses in my sunny disposition on a PMS outburst.

And what about that five pounds of “water weight” I accused PMS of causing each month? Menopause has attacked me where it can do the greateast amount of damage to my already unstable pysche … the scale! That unwanted five pounds of “water weight” has taken up permanent residence around my midriff and refuses to leave. What’s that all about??? I feel like I have a spare tire around my mid-section. Not quite a 4x4 spare tire, exactly. It’s more like one of those little donut tires made for compact cars that are always noticeably smaller than factory tires. You know the one that makes you cringe in embarrassment because it rolls down the street screaming, “I don’t belong here! I’m a spare!” That’s what the fleshy roll around my waistline is screaming … “I don’t belong here! I’m a spare tire of fatty deposits!”

I’ve really grown tired of this bothersome relationship, but yet I know Menopause could realistically stalk me for an indeterminate amount of time. Is there a point at which I can throw in the towel and gracefully accept the cosmic joke Mother Nature and Father Time are playing on my body? I admit, there are days it would be so much easier to stay and bed and hide until I feel like myself again. Thankfully, wisdom tells me, this too shall pass, and this Menopause phase, is just that. A phase. Another season of life that I and my sisters must all endure. I’m sure I must have experienced similar emotions when I “dated” puberty all those decades ago - and I obviously survived that ordeal. The difference between dating puberty and Menopause however, was that when puberty was through with me, I was left with a new pair of perky breasts as a consolation prize. I’m concerned about what lovely parting gifts Menopause will leave me … liver spots, spider veins, saggy breasts??? H’mmm, I wonder if I could get an upgrade on those breasts, please!

Maybe I just need to set Menopause on the trail of a fresh victim and take the focus off of myself. A dear friend of mine is turning 40 later this year. I wonder if it’s too soon for her to start dating my bothersome suitor? You never know!

Oh Lord, I pray you will not leave me or forsake me in the middle of this difficult season in my life. Help to balance my out of control hormones and be to able deal with things in a rational manner. Help me not to fly off the handle unnecessarily. Help me not to stress out about the “normal” changes in my body and my weight. I pray for the peace necessary to go through this phase in my life for however long it takes. Amen