Blood, Sweat and Tears

I am feeling somewhat more humanoid when I arrive at Scott's after my long perilous journey through the bowels of Hell. He greets me warmly and does not seem to notice that my appearance is a little more ragged around the edges than usual. Love is blind for sure.

Scott’s younger daughter has left for the neighbor’s house where comfort food will be comprised of a selection of Doritos, Popcorn and Funions and be accompanied by Xbox 360. So much more fun than dinner with Dad and his new infatuation.

For the rest of us, comfort food takes the form of burgers and fries and pints of beer at a local pub – Scott and I, accompanied by his older daughter and her newly minted boyfriend. They had their first date just days after us.

A double date with a pair of high school juniors. With junior licenses.

Perfect – designated drivers! Small price for them to pay for a free meal.

A giant burger smothered in blue cheese and carmelized onions, a sky-high pile of shoestring fries with some kind of Secret Sauce that seems to be the winningest combination of mayo and Worcestershire sauce ever, and a pint of ice cold IPA, and I am in top form. Aunt Flo is no match. Bring it on, sister!

Scott, who is technically a righty, but does admirably as a southpaw thanks to his mother coaching him in sports and being a southpaw herself, eats with his left hand and keeps his right hand pressed against my lower back the entire time. Even as he is busting on me for being afraid to drive his sports car, and razzing me about something harebrained I did in high school, and describing my uniquely unflattering band uniform while I describe his ridiculous Grand Poobah band hat.

Somehow this pleases me beyond description.

This is a guy who recognizes all the bells and whistles and other winning hallmarks of The Monthly Bill.

And this is a guy who, when realizing that the Curse is upon you, does not put a garland of garlic around his neck and keep his distance while you suffer the vapors and the mood swings and the teeth gnashing episodes and the Katy-bar-the-door consumption of food.

And this is a guy who also, when realizing that the Curse is upon you, does not treat you like a delicate china doll, and offer you tea and a hot water bottle, and dim the lights and talk in hushed tones, maintaining steady upkeep of your Pamprin levels and talking baby talk while you are recovewing fwom da big bad menstruwal whammy to the point where you want to strangle him with the cord to your heating pad.

Life simply goes on, blood, sweat, tears and all.

As awkward a subject as it is at any age for any new couple, Scott is a champion among men. Undaunted. Not inconvenienced. For him your period is your period. Period. Part of who you are. Comes with the package. And the peri-menopause? Well if you want to date in your age bracket, and Scott evidently does, this is par for the course. Even if you find yourself a 25 year old, this will happen to her eventually too. No better time than now to face the music. Consider it the flip side to his eventual hair loss and other nifty features of middle age. We'll still look good to eachother through our reading glasses.

Another pint and I have nearly forgotten the horrors of the day, and am nearly out of the cramp zone. Life is indeed good.

Hello, Has Anyone Seen My Hormones?

I open the windows and huff and puff and take deep cleansing breaths to calm myself. I tune into the classic rock station so there is no chance that I will hear some woeful Sarah McLachlan song or anything about Taylor Swift going back to December. Maybe a little AC/DC would fix what ails me.

Once I am not a whimpering, swirling pool of emotional turmoil, I take a deep breath and call Scott, saying a few sentences out loud before dialing so I know I do not sound barky.

I am reasonably sure I am on the right street, and clear on the remainder of the route, so I can take my mind off the road for the call.

One ringy dingy.

"Hello! Where are you?" Scott asks with enthusiasm.

"Hi there!" I say brightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Damn. There goes my Tony Award.

"Oh nothing. I had to make a stop and got a little turned around but I am back on track and OK now so I'll be there shortly" I say. Maybe a little too fast. Maybe a little too brightly.

"Stop for what? A girly emergency?"

No, he didn't.

Did he?

"Ummmm - well, yes, if you must know. How did you know?"

Oh good. I am dating the Amazing Kreskin.

"Lucky guess. Everyone here is in the same boat. I figured you would be too."

OK, one's Period is admittedly a fact of life. Nothing anyone should feel awkward about. Scott is nearly 50. I am sure he knows I get a Period. It's just that I did not want it to be "dinner conversation" exactly. And considering all the special effects I was experiencing, I was going to have to fess up. And it is a little more exposure than I would have liked. Something I didn't necessarily need to reveal just yet. A side of me I'd prefer to conceal for a bit. Like how I come completely unhinged if anything goes wrong at the airport.

But this, evidently, is a man who's been around women long enough to have learned the ropes. One sibling - a sister. Two teenaged daughters. Two ex-wives. Suddenly I am relieved to realize that me and my jumbo-sized deluxe model Period are not going to dish out anything he's not seen before.

"Well - good guess," I say, trying to act like I am not feeling overexposed. "And I'm not feeling real sporty. I may want to lie low tonight. Take it easy."

"No problem. The girls have already vetoed the original idea that we'd go iceskating. They'd rather go out for comfort food and then come home to watch The Blind Side by the fire on HD. Hey, I got us a bottle of wine! Should I pour you a glass or wait until you get here?"

I am nearly speechless.

"Oh, and don't mind the house when you get here. The girls have been lounging all day with heating pads and quilts and I gave them a pass."

I am smiling to myself. Aunt Flo, though uninvited, is not going to ruin this party after all. My cramps and crankies are going to fit in just fine.

Highway to Hell

The remainder of the ride was hot flash free. No trips to the gates of Hell. No walking on hot coals. No straddling the Equator.

Just cramps.

Cramps that remind you why epidurals were invented in the first place. Cramps that make you wince even though you have a rule against wincing because of the lines it will leave on your face some day. Cramps that are so distracting you miss your exit and are totally lost.

And this is where the hormonal whammy really rears its ugly head. I could not have gone more than a mile out of my way and you would have thought that my lunar space module had just become untethered from the mother ship.

My first reaction was to melt down in all the colors of the rainbow. To me, I was Lewis and Clark without Sacagawea. I have no GPS. I don't even have a map. I have no idea what town I am in. I am not really sure what the name of Scott's town is. I can feel the pit stains forming. I am seconds from calling Scott and sending up a flare when Reason taps me on the shoulder.

I take the next exit and vow to stop at the first convenience store or gas station even if it seems to be owned and operated by the nice folks featured in Deliverance.

But first, I have to try to remember where I am going (Scott's town is near...hmmmm....) and how I normally would get there (the exit by the big, big tree that is next to the billboard about the Casino...) I may actually have to call him.

And then I realize I know where I am! Or more importantly, how not to be there! I see a sign for the medical center I pass on the way to Scott's. The one I only notice because of the traffic mayhem it always causes. And I decide I can follow the blue H signs like a trail of bread crumbs all the way to where I need to be. No call to Scott necessary. No need to admit that I am really an idiot after all. My cover remains unblown for another day. There is time enough for that later.

I am so happy I am filling up with tears.

Oh no! My mascara is in deficit spending as it is!

But I can't stop. I am emotional weapons grade plutonium. Unstable and dangerous. I can barely see. And I nearly miss a blue sign.

Maybe I should call Scott. He may just want to voluntarily offer to be abducted by aliens before I get there.

S*** Shower and Shave

There is no turning back.

But there are two rest stops between mile marker whatever where I am melting the polar ice caps from the interior of my car, and Scott's house.

Two opportunities to assess the damages and bathe like the indigent do in public rest rooms. I have reached a new low. Glad I brought my shades. Glad I am in a foreign zip code.

I stop at the first one. As pleasant an experience as one might expect. Insufficient women's bathroom facilities. Lines of women and whining toddlers as far as the eye can see and sound can travel. No opportunity for a little privacy. Or a leisurely zshzsh. Or a little basic environmental cleanliness. And it is as hot as the Congo.

After what seems like a dog's life (Jeopardy theme playing in my head all the while) I am granted entrance to a stall. Size of a broom closet. Fetid. Brimming with germs and bacteria of superhuman strength. No place to hang my purse.

Is this a test?

But necessity is the mother of all invention, so I get to inventing. I unbuckle my pants and prepare to pee. I loop the straps of my purse over my head and leave it to dangle from my scrawny neck and rest against my chest. I summon what remains of my leg strength and my limited ability to remain upright so that I can hover above the Petri dish of a toilet bowl to pee. I am sure this will end in disaster.

And then I have a Camp Fire girls stroke of genius. I recall that my Mary Poppins sized fake fur purse, which is currently testing the tensile strength of the tendons in my neck, is the current home to a trial sized bottle of body lotion that belongs to my daughter, a job fair giveaway bottle of hand sanitizer, and a moist towelette packet, courtesy of the germophobe Middle School nurse. I feel like the passengers of the S.S. Minnow when they found the trunk of Ginger's dresses.

I am sure the alcohol content of the sanitizing products was not optimal for use on one's entire neck and torso but the fact that it lowered my body temperature 10 degrees on contact made it perimenopausal gold. The moist towelette was better than a any gym class shower and gave me a nice citrusy clean, albeit clinical scent that blended nicely with the tutti-fruity lotion from my daughter's extensive collection of girly notions.

Reasonably confident that I could rejoin polite society without attracting attention, or at least the cross-section of humanity currently milling about the filthy tiles of the rest stop lavatory, I removed the purse from my neck and stepped outside to belly up to the sinks and (smeary) mirrors. There, I used a damp paper towel to blot my shiny face and unsmudge the mascara that had run half way down my cheeks a la Ozzie Osborne. A dab of red lipstick to each cheek and a swipe across my lips brought me back to life. A clip in the hair for the remainder of the ride might set the hair straight. It was worth a try. A girl can dream.

I was ready for prime time. At least at a rest stop on the Parkway.

But who was I kidding?

I was no more in date form than I was the Queen of England.

Feelin' Hot! Hot! Hot!

So for about 12 weeks of the year, just so we don't get all cocky about our girlish fabulosity, Aunt Flo comes along to knock us down a peg.

It's not humbling enough to deal with the regular rigors of one's period. The standard features are not a whole lot of fun but with a little practice are manageable. Small price to pay. Like jury duty. Not a bad penance for the right to vote but everyone grimaces when their number is called nonetheless.

But then there are the "upgrades." The bonus tracks. The director's cut scenes. The gifts with purchase.

The bloating. Abs like a skillet one day. Floatation device the next.

The cramping. Not unlike being tasered.

The outrageous hunger pangs. Anything that isn't nailed down is in jeopardy. Particularly if it is made of chocolate. Or could could be mistaken for chocolate.

And the moodiness. I could be crying over a touching commercial for Tire Warehouse one minute and the next, verbally disemboweling the barista at Starbucks for asking if I want "whip" and thereby suggesting that someone of my proportions might want to avoid the "whip." I know that's what she's thinking. Skinny beyotch.

And now at MY AGE, I get these features, only Super Sized (special shout out to both my ovaries - thank you!) - plus one more.

Hot flashes.

Literally cooking from the inside out, I believe myself to be walking on the sun in my gasoline dress. I curse Global Warming. I have fleeting thoughts about Hell. I am sweating like an Olympic Marathoner at the Death Valley Games.

It is the day before New Years. My kids are with Lars and I am driving to Scott's after work, when that harbinger of doom, Aunt Flo, puts her whammy on me.

I am 35 miles into an 80 mile trek. With a sweatball on my nose.

I Enjoy Being a Girl

The new year approaches and my body is doing its darndest to remind me that I am in my “mid-to-late 40s" now. More importantly, making darn sure that I know that I am not in my 20s anymore. And there will be no turning back.

Being a girl can be so much fun.

No. Really.

I am not being facetious. Being a girl is absolutely spot on fabulous – about 40 weeks of the year.

We have such an edge over men.

Let’s start with the clothes. So many styles and variations to choose from. So many fashion icons to emulate - all at one time. Michelle Obama one day. Princess Diana the next. Carrie Bradshaw for this party. The neurotic germophobe teacher from Glee for that brunch. Thakoon here. J. Crew there.

For instance, if you are a girl, you have at least a million completely appropriate choices for your cousin's late afternoon wedding on the Good Ship Lollipop. With all the hemlines and sleeve lengths and waist heights, and necklines - the world is your oyster. There is surely at least a closet full of dresses that will simultaneously compliment your skin tone, show off your legs, flatter your bust, conceal the size of your butt and emphasize your teensy waist. All at an affordable price. And on-line, ready to wear.

If you are a guy, you have exactly one option and it will surely need alterations. You wear a suit. A suit where only the cut, cuff and lapel width has changed appreciably in the last 30 years. Just a suit. No matter who you are or what your physique dictates. A suit. Period. Sorry if you look like an appliance carton in it.

And shoes - girls have a million colors, heel shapes, heights, fabrics and variations of casualness. Sure it can be daunting - but who wouldn't rather be overwhelmed with possibility that bored to death with a shoe selection comprised of exactly 3 pairs of wingtips and/or cap toes, a pair of athletic shoes, something casual and a pair of flip flops. Yawn.

And girls can do anything. No one is going to look down their nose at a a gal with the chutzpa to participate in a typically male dominated activity. Look at Danica Patrick whizzing around in a race car with the big boys. Hillary Clinton knocking on the White House door for the top job. Sally Ride becoming the first American female in space. We applaud them all. Brava, ladies, brava!

But the minute a guy wants to join the majorette squad, look out. Eyes start to roll. People chuckle. Masculinity is called into question.

And let's not even start on a girl's luxury to skip a day of shaving or the ability to cover up a zit or an uneven skin tone with a little concealer. Blessings for sure.

But there is one bummer to being a girl - OK two, but they are related.

We get to conceive and bear all of the children - no sharing. Although it's probably for the best. We clearly are the more responsible parties. You guys would forget what you had cooking and go sky diving.

And in order to do so, we get a Period. The Big P. Aunt Flo. My Friend. The Monthly Bill.

Oh joy. The gift that keeps on giving.

Complicated is the New Black

Scott was perfect.

Adorable. Sweet. Funny. Nice. Socially graceful.
Gainfully employed. Lovely home. Beautiful cars. Boat.
Healthy and active – ice hockey, snowboarding, rollerblading, etc.
Just as attractive as he ever was to me, only now not in a Sweet 16 way. At this age, I value his maturity, his sensitivity, his sense of responsibility, his attentiveness, his values, his self respect and his kindness toward other people. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes.
He’s a really good guy.

And he lives 80 miles away in a neighboring state.

Like I said: Perfect.

Or not.

I am finding that 80 miles is a few too many. Maybe 40 would have done the trick. 40 miles might dissuade you from popping by unannounced to find the doors locked and the lights out because I went to the mall right after work and did some damage in the shoe department at Bloomingdales. 40 miles makes you call first. 40 miles makes you plan ahead.

80 miles just overdoes it. 80 miles is prohibitive. 80 miles makes you make reservations. 80 miles makes you pack a bag and fill up your gas tank. 80 miles is really a long way to go on a lark.

So much for spontaneity.

But 80 miles is apparently not too big a chasm to bridge when there is a will and one’s heart’s desire.

So we decide to work it out. It will take some trust and understanding. And gas money.

What about Fidelity?

Too soon to talk about, but I have a theory about that.

I make no assumptions. I do not ever say “I am seeing you exclusively and expect the same thing from you, so that’s the deal, Neal.” If I want to see you exclusively and forsake all others, even to my own detriment and my own heart’s peril, that is my foolish or not so foolish decision to make and has no impact on your decision to share the same devotion with me.

And my thinking is, if I am not attractive, interesting, intelligent, funny, fun-loving, or whatever enough to hold your attention, and you want the company of other people, that is hardly your fault. That is either my fault for being a drag, or we are not perfectly suited for one another. Not the end of the world. Just be honest about it. No one is going to go running off to boil your bunny a la Fatal Attraction if you see other people. And I am not likely to go standing on my head and whistling show tunes to get your attention, so it will all work itself out eventually.

As for availability, that is tricky. Our custody arrangements do not mesh well. We’ll have to get creative. And I still want time with my friends – the friends who have had the patience of so many saints for decades now. I want my girl time. And I don’t want to feel guilty about taking it. So I explain the perils of clinginess to Scott. He totally gets it. Go out. Have fun. Come home safe and tell him stories. Perfect. And I will give him the same harassment-free space. And no one will text the other 800 times an hour while we are apart. Deal.

And then there is the inconvenience of our careers. Enough said. Life would be so simple if no one had to work.

So what we’ll do is try not to get caught up in routines. Routines set expectations. At some point someone is going to want to break with tradition and a long held routine puts you in a position to disappoint or offend the other person. Someone’s feelings are likely to be hurt. So we’ll keep it fresh. Simple. Every week is new. A new plan. A new adventure. A new experience. Both of us have too many plates in the air to overcommit to anyone or anything else. We’ll plan to see each other when we can. And in the mean time, we’ll live our lives.

And this, will become the new normal. Hopefully love can bloom and grow in the rocky pit of sand we've attempted to plant it in.