An old-time barkeep is sweeping up the ash, peanut shells, and endometrial muck from the floor of my uterus. This is after he buffed my fallopian tubes as if they were made of the finest mahogany and spit-shined my ovaries with his trusty rag as he would the brass finials that crown each end of a beloved bar.
“Why are you doing that?” I ask. “What’s the point of sweeping and polishing when it’s nothing more than an abandoned building now? There will never be a new tenant. Might as well just bring in the wrecking ball. Tear it down.”
“Can’t do that, wouldn’t be right,” he says, as he slowly bends down to sweep the trash into his dustbin.
“Cleaning up is what I do. I put things in order. Wedding dresses get cleaned before being put in a box and preserved. Corpses get beautified before they’re laid to rest. I gussy up a woman’s reproductive system after it’s served its purpose. Special things in life need to be tended to, treated gently and with respect, before they’re put to bed.
“But look, there are polyps, dermoids and fibroids growing like mushrooms all around here. It’s a gross place. Stop! Don’t even bother wiping that down. It’s going to get removed soon, anyhow.
“Removed, why?” he asks, as he dusts a fat polyp.
“It’s making me bleed.”
“Oh, I see. Yep, they do that sometimes. It’s removal will help the aesthetics of the place, for sure,” he says as he glances around as if he’s assessing a country estate…
“MOM!”
“Oh, hey honey, what’s up?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just thinking about stuff…”
“You’re sitting in front of your computer and staring at the wall.”
“Yes, that’s what it looks like I’m doing on the outside, but inside I’m thinking big things. What do you want?”
“Nobody can play. I’m bored. Why can’t I have a brother?”
“I think we’ve been over this, but you can’t have a brother because I’m too old to have another baby. Besides, whether you realize it or not, you are lucky that you get to borrow friend/brothers who go home after a while. It’s the best of both worlds.”
_______________________________
They think I just sit here in front of the computer farting around, but I’m actually always researching something. Do you know that the only other female animals who go through menopause are two kinds of whales: the killer and short-finned pilot.
I find that so interesting. Why just us?
_______________________________
Am I still a female after menopause? This is the definition of “female”: of or denoting the sex that can bear offspring or produce eggs, distinguished biologically by the production of gametes (ova) that can be fertilized by male gametes. Based on that definition, I don’t think I’m going to be female for much longer. What will I be?
_______________________________
I hear millions of female voices cry out:
“I’m sweating”
“I’m freezing”
“I’m sad”
“I’m laughing”
“I’m crying”
“I’m hopeful”
“I’m horny”
“I want to throw up at the thought of sex”
“I’m covering up pimples with concealer while covering my gray hair with some magic spray called Style Edit”
“My hips pop when I roll over in bed”
“My boobs are so tender, don’t even think of touching them. Or hugging me. Just go away.”
“I think my husband is going to cheat on me”
“I think my husband is going to file for divorce”
“I think I will file for divorce”
“Monogamy is unnatural”
“I wear a maxi pad every day because I always feel like I’m getting my period…”
“BUT IT NEVER COMES!” The crowd roars.
On the verge, on the verge, on the verge…maybe, I think…nope. Nothing! There’s no relief in sight! Am I pregnant? No. It’s the itch you can’t scratch, the big sneeze that doesn’t come out…
“I HAVE TOENAIL FUNGUS!”, one female voice shouts.
The room goes quiet.
Another asks “Is that…is that… related to menopause?”
“I don’t know!,” she says , “but I have it now and never had it before!”
20 seconds later…
“WE MIGHT GET TOENAIL FUNGUS!” The crowd roars.
“MOM!”
“Yep, what’s up?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
