“Ten. You have ten years.”

               I hate the flimsy metal stirrups they make you put your feet in at the gynecologist. I hate the cold metal speculum, that I swear, they keep packed in dry ice  for “freshness” or something.  I hate when my doctor says; 

               “You may feel some ‘discomfort,’ for a moment.”

               Yeah, right. Discomfort.  No; let me define “discomfort” as I see it;  Discomfort is when you put on a sock and the little seam is kind of under your toes instead of at the the end of your foot, so when you walk you feel it.  THAT is discomfort.

               Or, when you put on a bra, and then for hours and hours you’re not comfortable because your bra strap has a little twist in it---that’s “discomfort.”

               Or, when you are eating something and there’s just not enough salt on it…

               Or when the nurse smiles, hands you a paper sheet, tells you to undress from the waist down and sit on the edge of the examination table and; “wait for doctor”—that is “discomfort.”

               That’s another thing I find discomfortable, “wait for Doctor,”  not “Wait for THE doctor.”  Like “Doctor” is the physician’s name.   ((Does this mean I’m supposed to call the doctor, “Doctor” instead of say—“Dr. Penobscott” ?? Because I am discomfortable doing that.  I like my doctor, but not enough to just call her Doctor like that’s her name. It’s NOT her name.))  When I was the mayor, people would try to call me “mayor” like it was my name, and I usually corrected them and said, “just call me, Kym. Or knucklehead…I’ll answer to either one.”

                I’m not comfortable being “elevated” to a higher social strata than those I serve…is this weird? Am I weird?  Is this a new thought?  No this cannot possibly be a new concept.

               So, when you tell me you are going to put this cold, metal device that my lovely niece, Erin once referred to as, “a cross between the jaws of life and salad tongs,” inside me—trust me when I say it is MORE than a little discomfort we women feel during this examination.  Taking that, and the whole, vulnerable position we are in, and then the whole “do I call you Doctor, or Doctor Who,” question running through my head…it’s just not good. Not good. Not good.

               So, basically what I’m saying is---there is nothing really comfortable about the whole experience of going to get your PAP smear.  We do it because we know we should. Cancer bad---cancer screenings good.

               Since about age 33, I’ve been sans ovaries because of potential cancer.  Because of this, I’ve been taking estrogen. Yeah, I know it’s controversial, I know that taking it has been linked to cancer, yadda yadda yadda, but hasn’t EVERYTHING been linked to cancer? 

               I love my estrogen that comes in a bottle. It’s like I was broken and now I’m fixed and it’s only been for a little while that I’ve been fixed…

               Last week I saw my “healthcare professional”  (there, I avoided the whole “I saw Doctor” or  “I saw MY doctor,” conundrum.))  She says we need to talk about me getting off the estrogen.  My lower lip quivered and my eyes burned with tears.

                I do NOT want to get off the estrogen. I love taking estrogen. I truly believe it is the veritable fountain of youth. My skin looks great, my hair is thick and lustrous, and yes, sex is quite sublime.

Estrogen has solved all of my problems.

               My whole life, I was kind of a basket case. My entire life, I had absolutely no idea why I was crying or upset or moody or causing all sorts of drama, and picking fights with people, and having that wretched feeling of my blood being on fire as it coursed through my veins.….until I had my ovaries removed and started taking estrogen. 

               My whole life got better. I’m certainly no “healthcare professional,” but my theory is simple:  the estrogen my body was making for itself was substandard, or not enough, or just not a good recipe.  The stuff that comes in the little bluish green capsule is awesome. My life is stable, my moods make sense to not only me, but to other people too. My reactions to things are logical. My thinking is clear.  I can safely say that none of the above was true PRE-prescription estrogen.

               I told her, “Nnnoo, thankyou. I prefer to stay on it thank-you-very-much.” I gave her my best winning smile. “It’s a quality of life issue really.”

               She was just not buying it. She says I can take it for another year, then I have to get off it. 

               Then a day or two later I went to visit my dear friend, Margie. She’s just slightly older than me.  We were talking about men and love and relationships…and of course you can’t talk about any of these topics with the subject of sex entering the fray…      

               Somewhere in the conversation I said, “I’m 50 years old right now---I’m not really sure how much more time I have left…”

               With absolutely NO hesitation, she said with all-knowing finality and certainty:                      

                              “Ten. You have ten years left.”

               I stared in disbelief, and funny thing-- I heard that weird noise you hear when you watch Law and Order---you know, that sound that kind of reminds you of a prison door being closed on you…Yeah. That sound. That’s what I heard.  Ten?  Just ten years?  That’s nothing.  That’s only slightly shorter than say, how long a good comedy show runs on NBC nowadays…then it’s all over. Ten years. Really?  Ten years???

               I tried so hard to act like, “oh heck yeah, I’m totally FINE WITH THAT OH YES I AM.”

               We both laughed—perhaps I was laughing a tad bit hysterically…I believe her.

               This chick knows her shit, dammit.

               Dammit, this chick knows her shit…

               Well, the fact is---I am NOT fine with that. Not one bit. If I can’t enjoy my life for as long as possible, then why do I want to be here?????  Seriously.

               So then I have Margie’s words echoing in my head, and I also hear my doctor saying:  “You have one year left.”

               To me, this means, I have exactly ONE YEAR to find a new doctor.  I’ll be damned if I’m going to be told what to do by Doctor. Hah. I advise all women to do the same. If you have finally found a way to live and are happy, and things are working for you finally---do not go down without a fight. I am a person, not some statistic on an actuary table. 

               Anyone reading this is now invited to comment and give me some ideas on alternative medicine where I can continue to live my life the way I choose to live it and not how conventional medicine dictates I live it. 

               Life is wonderful, life is exciting, life is pain, life is awful, terrible, heart wrenching and courage and passion are what make me want to stay here and enjoy this scary, unpredictable, volatile and lovely sublime ride for as long as possible.

               Well—all of the above and estrogen.

              

                 

NO you IDIOT---it's SPERMICIDE GEL...

So being single now for four years in this time I’ve experienced many discoveries, epiphanies and rude awakenings.

For example; when I was married with small children, I never thought that much about how revealing one’s shopping cart was about your life; or where you are in your life, or if your life is happy and satisfying, or…if it’s not…at the moment…

One reason I probably never thought of this before, was because I was too busy shopping and keeping my small children from running away, or being abducted, or from putting foreign objects in their mouths, or from standing up in the shopping cart, (that happened) and tipping it over, (that happened too.)

No. Crisis management does not allow for such ponderings.

During that time, I had elaborate shopping lists which correlated with my coupons, which were organized in a coupon keeper which was organized by household product.  What with all the crisis management going on, I needed SOME order in my life, so I micromanaged my coupons…

I would buy enough food to last about a week, then go back and buy some more.

But that was a lifetime ago, and NOW, shopping is not a big priority for me.  Paradoxically, eating still is a big priority but I hate grocery shopping.

I really do.  Maybe because it’s such a self-revealing exercise of what I’m doing with my life and where I’m going…and maybe other people can tell these things about me by looking at my purchases.

Plus—I really hate cooking for just me.

So, as the saying goes, the “circle of life,” has brought me back to the place where I buy “single girl” groceries.

Apples, Greek yogurt, carrots, eggs, bread, almond milk, coffee, cookies, make-up, wine and Windex. 

Every other week it’s, toilet paper, paper towels, Cascade and if I’m really feeling like a high roller---Tide laundry detergent.  

When I’m on a “health kick,” the list may also include:  kale, broccoli, stir-fry veggies, bean sprouts and cantaloupe.

The cart is never very full at all.  When one looks at my cart, the word “abundance” is not the word that would come to mind.

I have, what I think may be considered, “SSGG”

Sad Single Girl Groceries

Ever see the inside of a single girl’s refrigerator?

Jar of pickles containing one pickle

Expired Greek yogurt

Really old mealy apples (but they could still be good so I can’t throw them away)

Lots of expired cans of Slimfast (purchased during “health kick” phase)

One bunch of very bendy celery

Single girl’s cupboard:

Lots of Cup-O-Soup packets and Ramen Noodle packets

Ragu Spaghetti Sauce

Old box of dried Quinoa (purchased during a past “health kick” episode)

I know I have SSGG; and I’ve even become a bit self-conscious about it, to the point when the other day, a cashier at my local grocery pushed me right over the edge into:  DASSGG:

   “Defensive About Sad Single Girl Groceries.”      

I laid my purchases on the counter which included; a head of lettuce, carrots, non-fat Greek yogurt, walnuts, some almond milk, cans of tuna fish.

The cashier casually ran each item through the scanner without comment, until he got to the very last item;

One box of  “Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.”

               “You were doing SO WELL!”  He says in a patronizing tone, whilst wielding the white box with the little smiling girl in the corner, holding it, reading the label, probably doing the carbs versus fat gram ratio math in his head, looking back at me, appraising my waistline….

While I PATIENTLY wait for him to place it in the grocery bag so I can get on with my life.

               “What do you mean?” I say, voice incredulous, “what do you MEAN, I was doing so ‘well’?”

               “You bought all this healthy food,” he says, then with a disapproving pull in the lower corner of his mouth, holding the offending item, “…and THEN you bought THESE!”

Da da DAHHHHH!!!!

               Enraged at this invasion into my private snacking life, I cannot find my words.  All I have in my head is another flashback to another time. When there was only one cashier, and the cashier was also male and it was my time of the month to fulfill all of my feminine hygiene needs and on the counter, was Homemade Brand Cookies & Cream Ice Cream, several Cadbury Chocolate Bars, a box of SUPER maxi-pads, a package of EXTRA SUPER ABSORBANT Tampax in the 100 count box, a bottle of Pamprin, and a tube of spermicidal gel.

               He quietly scanned all of the items until he got to the gel. He picked it up to scan it, but paused for a moment, looking at it, because it must’ve been an unfamiliar product to him. Something he didn’t see everyday come across his scanner.  He looked at me, uncomprehendingly;

               “What IS this?” he asked. “Some kind of lotion?”

               In the driest tone I could muster, I said, “yes.”

            
 I guess grocery shopping is a very deeply personal thing for me and it always has been.  Maybe it’s the writer in me, or maybe it’s the newsreporter in me, but I catch myself writing backstories for other shoppers based on what I see in their shopping carts;

              

A woman with a cart packed full of cereal boxes, 2 or 3 loaves of bread, milk, bags of apples, 2 dozen eggs, several packages of assorted chicken, beef and pork, tons of frozen stuff, the really good already made orange juice—(not the cheaper stuff that comes in the little frozen concentrate like I buy,) and lots of stuff that would have to be for packed lunches, Snack-pack puddings, Fruit Roll-ups, lunch meat, Miracle Whip, ­­­bananas… Obviously THIS woman has a very full life, with children, and lots of dinners to make and nutritious lunches to pack. Her kids are all over achievers, and she and her fabulously handsome husband is a wonderful provider, and they probably go to Disneyland every Christmas vacation. On their honeymoon I just know they went to the Bahamas.

I just KNOW IT.

               Looking at my quiet little array of items, I think, wow, my only saving grace is there’s no 100 lb bag of cat food.  (yeah, that was a "cat lady" reference in case you didn't catch it.)

               Then I look over at a man and in his cart is a case of Bud-light, Fritos, salsa, chip dip, potato chips, various 2 liter pops, Grey Goose vodka,  a  deli-cheese tray, a dozen roses and a birthday cake….

               That really pisses me off.

       

               In life there are a lot of perceptions. While, yes, I was defensive and put off by being judged by a Kroger Cashier who does not even know me, I realize that I too, am guilty of making the same judgments of others. And that’s not right.  ((( Although I at least TRY to keep my damned mouth shut. ))

               I remember when I was in my unhappy marriage, and I remember seeing obviously single people in line with their groceries, and I remember being a little bit jealous of their ability to travel light.  Their "devil may care" groceries made me long for a different life.  To not have to cook if they don’t want to. To buy whatever they want and not have to justify it to anyone, because they’re independent. To come home to a quiet space that was just mine.

               Yes, I coveted the SSGGs of the world back then.

               So, at such moments when I catch myself with the old grass is greener mindset-- I try to remember this:

               I chose this. 

               I’m free and unencumbered.

               I don’t have to make dinner if I don’t want to.

               Maybe I won’t eat dinner at all!

               Maybe I’ll just eat this box of Little Debbies for dinner in my pajamas at 4 p.m. in the afternoon if I want to!

               Heck yeah.  Life is full of possibilities right now.  The world is my oyster!  
               Below is a picture of the lake at our family's cottage. It's the morning sunrise after a very stormy night.

               

               

“How about a cub for the cougar?”

"Thank you very much young man, but you deserve a girl that still has her ovaries…"  

               In the EARLY 1980s, dating was easy:   I went with my girlfriends to Lady’s Night at our favorite club.  I made sure my hair was bigger than everybody else’s; thus ensuring my spot as the “Alpha” woman on the dance floor, and I had my pick of prospective dates.  I just hear Spandau Ballet right now as I reminisce the good old days…

               But that was then. Now my hair is smaller, my pelvis is wider from having two children, (who’ve both since graduated from college,) and yes that was also before the invention of the home computer and the Internet.

               Nowadays, how does a single “mature” lady meet appropriate men?  No seriously, I am asking the question, because I really don’t know….It’s not that easy I assure you.  I’ve tried a couple of different dating websites.  I paid for a membership at both Match.com and eHarmony.com.  One of them netted me one message from a guy who at the beginning of his message introduced himself as “Michael” and at the end of the message signed off as; “Trevor.”  Being the smartass that I am, I couldn’t help but reply back, “So which are you?  Michael or Trevor?  Or did you start the message as “Michael” and by the end your alternative personality “Trevor” showed up? 

               He responded that it was a “typo,” to which I said, “most people know what their name is…but a guy with your wit and cleverness is bound to meet the right girl! Good luck and God Bless! J

               After spending way too much money on the paid dating websites, I found a free one.  There were a lot more responses, but they were pretty colorful to say the least.  I went on many dates as a result of this site, but most of the dates were really bad dates---so bad really, that I was provoked into writing my on-line profile almost like a manifesto of standards to which all prospective men would be held if they wished to date me:

               “If you think I am the type of girl that is impressed by the fact that you are out on parole, out on your own recognizance; or have been sober for “six days!”   I am probably not girl for you.

               If you think I will be complimented by the term ‘cougar,’ you are very, very wrong and misguided indeed.

               If you think I will be impressed by you telling me that you are lying in bed thinking dirty thoughts about me; and you haven’t even met me, I am definitely not the girl for you… Seriously?  That’s actually worked for you???

               No, I will not meet you at 11:30 p.m. at some park and ride lot at the Brighton exit off of I-96…nevermind…I can’t even finish this one.

               If you think telling me that your job has transferred you to China and now we can only communicate via Skype, and the screen says you’re in Brownstown, Michigan, and you ask me to take off my top….trust me on this…I am not the girl for you.

               If you think that I will enjoy being chased down the street by a waitress and a bouncer because you tried to dine and dash with me as your date and I will find that exciting;  you might want to rethink that strategy;  I will not enjoy it.  (In fact I did NOT ENJOY THAT AT  ALL.)

               If you are the kind of guy that doesn’t get my snarky sense of humor and you want to kill everything you don’t understand….keep moving…I am not the girl for you.

               If you think taking me to the movies, then yelling at the top of your voice, “BIG dog!” every five or six minutes until the dude with the tattooed face sitting in front of us stands up, turns around and grabs you by the shirt, pulls you out of your seat and tells you he is going to stab you if you don’t shut up----trust me---I will just pretend I don’t know you and I will leave your ass there to take the beating you deserve…I hope you enjoyed that.

               Speaking of “cougar” and younger men. I did go out with a much, much younger man on a date just one time.  It was exhausting.  For one thing—he lied to me about his age. He told me he was 42; then when I met him at the designated public restaurant in a town where I knew everyone; he turned out to actually be 27….but I found that out, only after he tried telling me he was not actually 42 but 35 and I told him his peach-fuzz goatee and ponytail did not look like they were 35 years old. Only then did he confess to being 27.  Then for the rest of the 30 minutes we were together I felt like I was babysitting a puppy with ADHD. 

               “Stop that!”

               “Get that out of your mouth!”

               “Don’t touch that!”

               “Put that down!”

               “Behave!”

               Maybe I’m just getting old, but 27-year-old boys seem a lot younger to me now, than they did when I was a 23-year-old girl.

               I’m still hopeful though that there will be someone real, someone appropriate, someone genuine who is not completely broken, who has personal integrity and is capable of giving and accepting love.  I hold onto that thought as I cling to my lifeboat of hope and optimism.  Life just can’t be that cruel….right?