So put on your menopanties and deal with it...

I realize that I’ve been hit and miss in blogland lately. There are several good reasons for that, but probably the main one is that somewhere between turning 49 and turning  49 ½,  I’ve become one big ball of raging hormone.

It’s true.

Between outside temperatures of 100 degrees and my flaming hormones, I have a personal heat index of 212.  I know this because I’m prone to boil over and spew water at any random minute.

If I could put two cohesive thoughts together, I would try to pound them out. Of course that would put my keyboard in the same sorry shape as the rest of my computer.

I feel sorry for my daughters.

I’d probably feel sorry for Sir Lotsa Hair  too if he weren’t so infuriating.  Just for the record, reaching for an imaginary Men-o-Manual and flipping through imaginary pages is not comic relief.  His best bet is probably a clean getaway.

He uses that convenient little thing called business travel.

I use that convenient little thing called a cell phone.

Wok wok wok wok wokkkkkkkk……..

I ranted for 15 minutes last week before I realized that he had been in a dead zone the entire time.

It made me irrationally weepy.

It doesn’t help that all my friends are around the same age and going through the same thing. In the case of mischievous hormones, misery does not love company. Good grief, it’s like being in the seventh grade all over again. We need a few 59 year old menograduates in our circle to ease us over the hill. Too bad they all alienated us ten years ago.

Just sayin’….

Now folks, I think I could handle this out-of-body irrational weepy/ranty adventure if this pausing thing weren’t playing such havoc with my personal appearance as well.

Mainly, it’s a hair thing.  For one thing, it’s flat and limp. I live in the south and came of age in the 80s so I like a little poof on the roof.  Hormone hair does not poof. It just hangs like an unattractive piece of yellow embroidery thread.

My stylist once told me to keep wet hair in a towel for a spell before taking it down. It’ll confuse the roots, she says, and create the desired roof poof.   For years, this little trick has worked like a charm. Of course, that was before the aforementioned roof became so uncontrollably hot.

These days, it just creates a steam room and roots which are not only confused but irritated to boot. I wouldn’t recommend it. Besides, it’s not working anymore anyway. That’s because hormone hairs are not only thinner and finer, they are fewer.

It’s true. I read it on the internet.

That’s not to say that they are falling out. Man hair falls out. From what I can gather, hormone hair just retires to sunnier climes on the Chin Peninsula.  It all starts innocently enough with an early retiree or two. The next thing you know, Snowbirds are nesting all over your face.

OK, I'm being a little dramatic. They're not all over the face…

They certainly aren’t nesting in the eyebrow zone. Instead, there are clear signs of mutiny on the golden arches. Since I’m blond, I never had an impressive set of eyebrows to begin with, but I always had enough. Nowadays, all I see is sparse undergrowth covered by a few gray comb- overs.

Of course, you might not notice that..

I probably wouldn’t  notice it all either were it not for my illuminated 10X magnifying mirror. That’s where the irrational part comes in. It was pretty irrational to buy the thing, but since the eyesight was the first thing to go, it seemed a good idea at the time.

Deep breath.

Oh, there’s more, but I just checked the word count and have grossly exceeded my limit. I’ll have to talk about my leg hair and dry skin another day.  At least now you know how the husband feels. Wok wokwokwok wokkkkkkk…

I hope someone can relate.

If not, it’s going to make me irrationally weepy.