I don't know about you, but I'm loving menopause.
For me, it's Freedom 55 and it's been a long time coming.
Menopause has been given a bad rap. It needs a new publicist.
Menopause is not the culprit; perimenopause is the evil genius that ruined my life over the past decade.
For years, I had no control over my bodily functions. I wept from all orifices as if God had laid upon me a female version of the stigmata. I had daily panic attacks which forced me under the bed. My spouse could only coax me out with flagans of red wine.
I grew breasts the size of watermelons. My legs vibrated. Strange things grew in unconventional places.
But around this time last year, all manner of aches and pains stopped. The orifices became plugged forever, as if a team of enterprising beavers found a new cause celebre. I miraculously stopped leaking.
And I grew new brain cells. Once again, I became a rational and perceptive human being.
It was a miracle for the ages.
Today, I am a full functioning human except in one area.
I seem to have misplaced my cervix.
I used to know where it was, but now it's gone missing.
I believe it's somewhere between my knees and my belly button.
Or maybe it just disappeared.
Maybe it was smuggled out by aliens.
Doctors say I need hormones.
I think maybe I need less red wine.
Or more Al Green.
It's a puzzle, a mystery, an urban legend.
If you see it return it.
I hear it still has some use.