HOR'MOANS'

WHERE IS MY OVARY?

I think it was sometime around 1999, several years after my hysterectomy and an ovary removal, when I was at the doctor for a “well woman” check, she ever so casually mentioned, “I can’t find your ovary.” “Really,” I replied, “Because there is one left in there, I heard it complaining about the working conditions the other day.” What I really wanted to say, since I am getting ever so close to the age where I can, was “There IS an ovary in there so you just go back in and don’t come out until you find it (young lady)!” This was my only ovary! Was it healthy? Was it lonely?

Where does an ovary go when it no longer feels useful? Was it hiding, feeling dejected behind a kidney? Was it on a beach in the Mayan Riviera sipping on a pina colada? Was it getting too much sun there? Maybe a teenage alien had it floating in a jar of formaldehyde affixed with a blue ribbon from the science fair. Wherever it went, it needed to be found because when it left, it took with it my youthful-appearing firm, supple skin, my ability to lust after Bono from U2, and every drop of moisture from places in my body where moisture is a “must have.” However, I’m not one to hold a grudge and wish it well. We never really got along anyway.

I'M HOT

If I had a daughter and was talking to her about menopause, I would tell her that after the hot flash years, her thermostat may get stuck on hot. If that were to happen, she would not be able to buy really cute fall and winter sweaters with matching scarves. She would having nothing to do with big fluffy comforters or flannel pajamas. If my daughter was stuck on hot, she could not drink hot chocolate with marshmellows next to a roaring fireplace. For some reason, if she did get a bit chilled while out in a blizzard, she could put on a jacket but only for a minute before she'd rip it off saying, "Get this off of me, I'm dying!" My daughter would kick off covers and fling open a window AFTER setting the thermostat at 65. She would go to work in January in sleeveless shirts and turn on the fan in her cubicle while complaining about how does this company expect them to work under these conditions? Why can't they keep that flippin' thermostate turned down!? If she was able to see the breath of her coworkers or their fingers turning blue, she would not care. She would tell them to stop whining and put on a sweater. Then she would rip off her bra because she was "boiling" and stuff it in her purse until the end of the day when she could go home to a nice cool bath.

WHAT DO STING AND BONO HAVE IN COMMON?

Just yesterday my husband, Don, after watching the Stones, said ever so casually, "My boss said if she weren't married she would totally "do" Mick Jagger."  I was confused by this for two reasons:  One, she is at least my age and two, Mick has no butt and his skin looks like it's falling off his bones.  After thinking about this for a moment I said, "If I did have a living hormone somewhere in my bodyand weren't married, I would totally "do" Sting or Bono.  But as things stand now, if they came to our house and literally threw themselves at me in the heat of passion, well, EWWWW!" 

Maybe there is a narrow window between 40 and 50 when, and I hate this word, the cougar thing would work for some woman, but I'm just wondering how many woman after 50 have desires to "do" the rich and famous.  I questioned my doctor about adding extra testerone meds to my diet as I've heard these can spice things up in a woman, but backed out upon hearing "facial hair" and "you can use your husband's razor" as side effects.

I must admit that I feel sad about loosing the desire want to "do" Bono or Sting.  Maybe now is the time to move on from desires of the flesh to desires of the soul.  Amen to that, my sisters.