Turn, turn, turn

by Judy Merrill Larsen

Sitting here on my sofa, looking out the windows into my backyard, the leaves that just a week ago were still the deep green of late summer are now shades of gold and orange with hints of the vibrant red that will come in another week or two.

When I went out to get the paper this morning, there was a definite chill in the air and fallen leaves fluttered at my feet.

Time is passing and while it's usually not this noticeable, the signs are everywhere right now.

My younger son will be home for a few days--and I'll make apple pie and chili and banana bread, all favorites of his. I'll also wrap a big box for his birthday. He'll be 21. I can't quite get my brain around that. Not only am I no longer the mother of toddlers; I'm not even the mom of teenagers. That can mean only one thing: Damn, I'm old.

Are you like me . . . no longer a reliable judge of people's ages? I still sorta think of myself as younger. Or at least as not as being seen as middle-aged. This summer my husband and I took a younger couple from work to a baseball game with us. The wife was pregnant with their first baby. She and I chatted about diapers and childcare. It wasn't until we were driving home that it occurred to me that they probably didn't see us as contemporaries but as their folks. Eek. At least I didn't mention my hot flashes to her.

I still think I'm fun. Hip in a midwestern kind of way. I work out. I haven't yet turned into that weird old woman on the corner who hoards cats and swills metamucil. But, I'm closer to her in years than I want to be.

I've always claimed that since my grandmother lived to be 103, I won't be middle-aged until I'm 51 1/2. That gives me 3 more years. But unless I start handing cards out to people I meet, they're not going to get that news flash. And the stiffness in my feet when I get up in the morning (what the heck is up with that?) is also a not-so-gentle reminder that these bones have been serving me well for nearly a half-century and they might be a little tired.

The seasons and years swim by and so much of the time I'm in too much of a hurry to stop and savor them. Here's my declaration: that rushing stops now. The leaves are gorgeous. There are apples to pick and birthdays to celebrate and even sore bones to attend to. My son will be home. And he still laughs at my jokes. We can sit out on the porch and have a beer and talk. And, because of the hot flashes, I might not even need a sweater.

I'm So Hot (And Not In a Good Way) by Barb McKone

I can't wait until Paris Hilton is forty-nine.  

I can't wait to witness the "Entertainment Tonight" moment in which she stifles her "that's hot" catch phrase because she realizes the trickle of perspiration traveling from her forehead to her chin can actually be seen on national television.  She'll coyly turn her head, smile, pout, cover it up. But we'll know.  Those who have gone through it will know.  

She will, of course, have a different catch phrase by then.  Probably something deep like, "That's deep."  Who knows? 

All I know is, I'm hot.  And not in a good way. 

I'm the girl who has always slept in sweatpants and socks.  My husband has accused me of wearing this armor to ward off advances on super-sleepy nights.  Not true.  Well, not entirely true.  The truth is, I'm freezing.  Or at least I was.  I fleece up because I've always been the cold one, my whole life.  I'm the one with the ice-cold toes on summer nights.  I'm the one who buys a sweatshirt on vacation when everyone else is buying flip-flops, and needs an extra blanket on family movie night.  Being that person, I cannot express the surprise of realizing, while sitting comfortably at an evening college football game in a tank top, capri pants and sandals, that the rest of the cheering throng was in sweatshirts and jeans.  Some were blanket huddling!  WHAT IS HAPPENING?  If my life were a movie, the trailer voice-over would say something like, "She was a wife, a mother, a friend. Until she started melting, from the inside out..."

From what I gather, women start this hormonal hell anywhere from thirty to sixty.  I say, "I gather," because no one seems to talk about it until I bring it up.  When I fan myself and say, in a group of middle aged women, "I'm so hot, and not in a good way," it's as if the dam has burst. Stories of hot flashes in workplaces and on college visiting days abound, and it always makes us all feel better.  I have a friend who experienced her first hot flash while on a plane to Florida. She made the pilot, who had started taxiing the runway, turn back and let her off.  She thought she was dying.  Although mine started sneaking up on me rather than hitting me over the head like hers, I can relate.  It's quite a shock to the system.

I have friends completely finished with "The Change" by the time they're forty-five, and others who haven't started the dread sweat-fest by the time they're sixty.  It doesn't seem to matter, except that my sister says that her doctor told her that having your cycle intact for as long as possible keeps you looking younger.  This doctor has patients who medicate to sustain the whole thing. Too late for me. At the rate I'm going, I'll be looking sun-dried by the time I hit the big 5-0.

So, where does all this leave me, besides in my own personal puddle?  I guess I'll get one of those hormone scans.  See my doctor.  All that good stuff.  In the meantime, I'll just be really shiny and hope for an early fall.  This year, I look forward to the nip in the air more than the change of colors.  Come find me at the football games; give me your advice on this subject. 

I'm sure you'll be able to pick me out.  I'm the one in the tank top.