My hot flashes are almost over. Sleep is not a problem. My new bio-identical hormones are starting to congregate in my cells. My biggest challenge in this almost post-menopausal time is the inability to concentrate. In fact, I can barely remember to take those lovely little hormones daily.
In addition to being forgetful, I am also living with a very fast-paced brain in my little slow-paced body. To be honest, it’s not that little. I am trusting that the hormones will correct that soon. I am also hoping they will whiten my teeth, erase my wrinkles, tone my thighs, and sprout a money tree in my back pocket. See what I mean? I was telling you I’m forgetful, and the next thing, my mind has sped to a money tree in my pocket!
Just last week, I went shopping for a new bathing suit. I found the perfect halter-topped black suit, which could double as a sundress. It flowed over my hips, and I didn’t even have to hold my stomach in. What a great find! When I got home, I modeled my new suit for my husband. I twirled around the family room so he could see how it flowed. This was possibly the best bathing suit of my entire life! I even put on sandals and hoop earrings to show him the sundress look. He agreed. “Great suit!”
It wasn’t until I went back in and put it in my closet that I noticed the tag, “Maternity by Karen!” Aghhhh! I’d purchased a maternity bathing suit! Worse yet, it fit!
Now being the optimist that I am, I found I could wear this beauty. In fact, as I was walking to the beach, I could feel that pouch that an eight-month pregnant woman would fill out naturally. It felt like an empty nest for my uterus. I realized that I could probably fill that pouch with suntan lotion, my Kindle, a beach towel, and very possibly two small beach chairs. I might even have room for a cold beverage, but not too chilled. I am now a sunbathing kangaroo!
I can wear that suit and I can laugh about it now. It did get my attention, though, and I vowed to slow down. My husband says I need to reduce my mental speed from 125 mph to 25 mph. At least that’s what I think he said. He talks way too slow for me, and I was making mental notes for things I had to do that day. I just agreed with him and said, “That makes perfect sense. I’ll definitely slow down to 25 mental mph.”
The very next morning, I had decaf coffee to start me in slow mode.
A few days later, I went for my annual physical. While the nurse entered my blood pressure on my chart, she asked my age. I had to think for a minute, reducing my mental mph, and I told her, “I am thirty-six or thirty-eight, depending.” I smiled at her. I was very proud that my mind was in slow-mo.
She gave me blank stare and asked, “Well, which is it? Are you thirty-seven?”
I was a bit confused by that question, so I repeated my answer. “No! Thirty-six or thirty-eight, depending.”
“Depending on what?” She was barking at me now. I was about to explain to her that different manufacturers have different fits. That’s when I realized that I’d given her my bra size and not my age! I was fifty-seven, but I have great memories of my bra-size years!
I am making a serious effort to slow down after this morning. It was the final straw. It was a busy morning, and I remembered that I needed a dentist appointment. I dug out my address book and found the number. I then proceeded to call my gynecologist, and told them, “I need to come in soon. I have cavity that is growing and needs to be filled.” The receptionist could barely speak. She was laughing uncontrollably.
I didn’t see the humor, so I told her, “This is serious. I could need a root canal!”
Now she was snorting in my ear. I was just ready to recommend a compounding shop for her hormones when she said, giggling, “Oh, Anne, you called the gynecologist, not the dentist.”
Can you say 150 mental mph?
I am coming to the realization that I really must reduce my mental speed to a flashing school zone limit. It might also be helpful if I had a crossing guard in my mind! I think 15 mph might be my maximum speed. I need to go back to a slower world, uncluttered with warp speed thoughts. I know of this new place called ANZ World. I need to go there very soon.
My husband asked, “Why didn’t you spell Anne correctly?”
“It’s much faster to use the Z. It’s phonetic,” I told him.
“There, do you see what I mean?” he moaned. “You are always in a rush!”
I grabbed a pen to show him. “Anne’s vs. ANZ. See the difference? It’s three letters vs. five, plus an apostrophe.”
He rolled his eyes and asked me to make him a drink.
“Can’t do it right now,” I told him. “I have to run to Wachovia Bank. I have to make a deposit.”
“That’s great,” he said, “but our account is at Bank of America.” Then he shook his head. “I’ll make my own drink!”