Tag - menopause

Xray Visions
Hoofin’ It

Xray Visions

Lately I have been subjected to several xrays. Of my wrist. Nothing else. Yet every time I head into the Xray room, a technician asks me if I’m pregnant. I am momentarily flattered, until they immediately add, “We have to ask” with a wink and a smirk that says, “We know you couldn’t possibly have an egg left, you post-menopausal train wreck.”

I always laugh and say, “Not a chance, but thanks for asking!” We share a moment and laugh. (You could at least pretend I pass for an amniocentesis candidate, bitches.)

As I sit down and place my scaphoid wrist bone in the cross-hairs, I add, “Well, unless there is an alien baby in there.”

The nurse brings over a lead apron and places it over my shriveled, useless ovaries smiling, “Just in case there is an alien in there.”

“Thanks, I wouldn’t want it to have three additional arms.”

“Or two sets of eyes.”

She hides behind the lead-enforced wall-of-safety while another technician pushes the zapper. They chat briefly in radiology-speak.

“What are you ladies talking about? Do you see something I should know about?”

She comes back to rearrange the position of my hand. “I see you have a screw in there.”

“Seriously? That damn alien! He must have left that behind after he probed me.”

“I’ll make a note of that for the surgeon.”

“You’d better. He probably won’t even notice.”

She heads back and starts talking medical gibberish with the button-pusher again and I hear the buzz of the x ray machine.

“It burns!”

“You’d be surprised. There are some people who actually think they can feel it.”

“No way. You must get all kinds.”

“Well, we can’t really say. It wouldn’t be professional.”

“Uh ladies, that ship sailed.”

She ushers me to the door smiling, “Can you stay with us all day to make it more tolerable?”

“I’d love to. People take this shit way too seriously. Of course, if they’re in pain…”

“Yes, well, sometimes we’re the ones suffering.”

“I’m sure you are, but imagine when this side-show baby wants to come out? I hope it doesn’t have horns or talons.”

“Come back again and we’ll take a picture for you.”

“Excellent. I’ll post it on Facebook for all those fertile bitches who expect people to gush over their ultrasound pictures. Like a fetus is a big accomplishment.”

“Good luck with your little alien.”

“Thanks. We could have skipped the damn apron, I’m going to drink heavily through this one.”


                                       Here’s looking at you, kid.

Hoofin’ It

My grandmother used to say: “It’s better to sit than stand, and even better to lie down than sit.” When she wasn’t lying down, she didn’t make her bed because she claimed to be “airing out the sheets.” Reaching menopause brought the wisdom of the latter to light. Night sweats definitely warrant airing out the bedding along with wringing out pajamas, midnight showers and waterproof mattress pads. I’ve gone from “hottie” to “clammy” and my husband thinks I should sleep with an IV at night to replace the fluids I lose. He certainly won’t reach out for me anymore without donning latex gloves.

Despite needing to sleep on layers of Sham Wow towels, lying down is still my favorite past time. As soon as I get out of bed, I am plotting my return. Naps are a necessity. I zealously honor my Grandmother’s memory by following her sensible guidelines to good health. I struggle with the guilt of feeling lazy, but only while I’m awake. So when I have the fortitude to be up and about, I prefer tolerable shoes to counter the grueling effects of gravity. During the cooler months, I wear shearling-lined slippers indoors and fleece-lined Crocs outside.


There is nothing more accommodating to my feet and lifestyle. No need for socks. No need to bend over. Just slip one off and slip into the other. Slip either one off when getting back into bed. The simplicity is godly.


One day, while relaxing in bed, I read in TIME Magazine a quote from Tim Gunn, the fashion guru who guides and prods the talented designers on Project Runway. When asked about his fashion pet peeves he responded: “Generally speaking, it’s footwear trends. I mean, today, the era of the Croc—it looks like a plastic hoof. How can you take that seriously? I know it’s comfortable; I understand that. But if you want to dress to feel as though you never got out of bed, don’t get out of bed.”


My problem is, I don’t want to get out of bed. Naturally, staying there isn’t an option since no one is willing to push my king size bed around town or bring me meals until paramedics need to break through the wall to rescue me. So who’s to say my little piggies don’t belong in plastic pig hooves? For me, cloven clogs give me the strength to leave my bed and get on with my day.


Thanks to Mr. Gunn, I now feel self-conscious about my Croc ped-beds. Instead of reveling in their comfort and practicality, I walk around feeling bad about myself for choosing a hose-able shoe over a shoe that should be worn with hose. Despite my sensitive psyche, my tender feet win out and I continue to wear what makes them happy. Tim has made Crocs a guilty pleasure. I already feel guilty about wanting to lie down all the time, I don’t need any guilt about being upright.

The irony is, my dedication to hoof-like footwear shows I am not sheep-like in following whatever some fashion fanatic deems appropriate. I’m working on my esteem issues being entangled with a person I have never met and who will never be personally assaulted by my barn-worthy fashion sense. (And by “working” on it, I mean “sleeping” on it.) But if I ever do have the pleasure of running into Tim Gunn on the street, I will squeal like a pig with excitement and rapidly follow that up with the bleating of a lifetime.

Copyright © 2014 Amy Sherman

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