FEELING (NOT SO) FABULOUS

I have a favorite poem by Marge Piercy called “Wrong Monday.” She paints such a prolific picture of the perfectly wrong day, I think of it every time I have one. It makes me feel better to know I’m not alone. The poem is a collection (Available Light) I bought in my college days when a friend introduced me to what I thought of as a racy bookstore in Columbus, Ohio called “Fan the Flames.” The book is beyond a little ratty, but flipping through to that poem periodically has a medicinal effect on my mood.

Now that I’m into my 40s, my moods have rather drastic ups and downs, sweeping cyclically with my internal rhythms. I never really bought into this in all my years, until recently. I listened with a distinct degree of detachment to friends who spoke of their monthly pendulum swings, as I never suffered from emotional ups and downs when I was younger. I was pretty certain I oscillated in the middle. So now that I’m in the twilight stages of my fertility, it’s a 28-day wake-up call when I’m feeling absolutely down and out — I mean rock bottom, baby — and then my period starts. “Oh.” Each and every time —“Oh.” Like it hasn't happened every month since I was 13. Let me see — that’s about 350 “Aha!” moments.

These are the times I feel particularly sorry for my family. Normal everyday life gets too much for my fragile emotional state. The usual morning bickering between siblings sounds like the world’s ending to me. Spilled milk takes on the proportions of Niagara Falls in my mind, and I cannot fathom there’s anything out of the ordinary causing this poor perspective. I blame them. Until I realize it’s ME! “Oh! Poor them!” Everything I do is for not, and everything I say goes unheard. I only wish some of the things I do and say on this particular rotation would go by way of nevermore.

I finally made it to the doctor for my annual check-up recently. And I use the term “annual” loosely. A bane of my — and every person who finds themselves moving house every two to four years on average — existence is that every time we move I have to find a new, respected, likable doctor for every one, fill out forms, make appointments, find directions, etc. I usually put myself last in the line-up. So I was pretty excited to get in with a local OB/GYN at one of the best hospitals in DC with a great rep on short notice. I’d had enough, suddenly, and wanted to see someone about these crazy symptoms. I wanted insights. I wanted answers. I wanted relief.

I anticipated the appointment with the eagerness of someone who knows they carry the winning ticket; they just need to cash it in. I was finally going to get some answers. But, alas, the doctor had a different agenda. She was pretty brief and to the point with me. After I unloaded my list of ailments and requested a blood test, she replied in her own quick, bulleted manner, “Welcome to the fabulous 40s club, and I’m not an intern-est. You need an intern who can read those blood tests. That’s not me.” I was flattened on two fronts. One — my circumstances seemed ordinary; she was not impressed in the least, and two, I had to go and find ANOTHER doctor to assure me I was fine. Oh — and if I wanted to try something to remedy the mood swings, she suggested, I might want to consider Prozac — and lay off the red wine and dark chocolate. Hmmmm. I never told her about the red wine and dark chocolate. You can forget that, lady. I believe in the red wine and dark chocolate; but not the Prozac.

I have a friend who is an OB/GYN who I frequent with my sincere yet often misguided inquiries. In contrast to my in-office experience, he’s pretty patient. Sometimes I get answers. Sometimes I don’t. And sometimes I embarrass myself in the process. But it feels good to be able to ask the questions. I think it takes a certain amount of giftedness to be able to listen patiently to the ramblings (rantings?) of women, or anyone, and evaluate whether, or not, there are real symptoms to be examined medically. It also feels pretty great to find that when on those rare occasions you’re out with the gals, you find your thoughts are not so random. 

They’re echoed by so many of us who, too, have joined the fabulous 40s club.

What a ride, this particular decade. This is the time when so many of us, at last, are at peace with ourselves — theoretically. We’re through battling for thick hair or big boobs that were never intended for us. Or by now we’ve had the surgery(ies) and finally have realized our God-given right to feel fabulous. Most of us have had our children, we’re turning the corner of diapers and infant care into a little more independence and self actualization. And we feel it. The tantalizing taste of individuality. We are SEXY. No need for affirmations (but that’s nice, too), we KNOW it!

And then — without warning, the weather changes. Our body is literally swept through by a hormonal hurricane of catastrophic proportions. Ah — fleeting, this feeling of hard-won self-perception — this acceptance that strength and beauty comes in all kinds of packages, including ours. I found this quote by fellow Ohioan James Thurber. I think he sums it up nicely: “Women deserve to have more than twelve years between the ages of twenty-eight and forty. ~James Thurber, Time, 15 August 1960


Amen to that.