Midlife Chronicles Take 2 – Hotflushes….

…sucks more balls than going to the Padda Doctor

…it’s driving me nuts

Feel a bit crazy, do you?

(singing)

…you’re hot then you’re cold….thank you Katy, but I’m just frikkin’ HOT

…I’m on fire…fireball…yeah, Pitbull, that I am.

I’m on fire

Die Padda Dokter

I do not expect anyone to know what this refers to, so I will give you the literal translation: “The Vagina Doctor”. This is my name for a gynecologist. Apt name imo.

(Padda is pronounced pah-dah, Dokter = doctor, edit: the literal translation for padda is “frog”,  but in my culture it’s used to refer to one’s vagina)

I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t dread these visits. Every year from the day you hit puberty, until you reach 40 your vagina and co is subjected to some unwanted and intense scrutiny (and vandalism imo). After 40 it becomes every 6 months. “Spare me the mortification and humiliation please” I ask.

The only time ANY woman would willingly submit to this ordeal is because they
1. are having a baby
2. are planning a baby
3. want to have one but the gearbox (uterus) isn’t working as designed (or the design is screwed up)
4. want to have said gearbox removed.
5. are having some serious issues with gearbox and co

I hate these visits like a passion. In the past, I would often skip a year or two in-between visits – at my peril I know, because these visits are useful to prevent and detect some nasty things happening to gearbox and gear-shift (vagina).

Clearly it’s just one of those things we have to do. The only consolation to me is this: men have to subject their own ball(s)-and-tackle to unwanted scrutiny and violations. But what fills me with greater satisfaction – their plumbing has to be checked (i.e. backdoor) out too. The horror on my husband’s face the first time he was subjected to this was reward enough (is it wrong that I am smiling with glee at the thought of guys going through that shit?).

At this point you must be wondering if there is a point to all this. Yes there is.

Now going to a PD here, in Germany, is much of the same, but much of it isn’t.

If you are a prissy cherrie (pronounced: cherry, aka woman), the PD procedures here would have your delicate sensibilities deeply shocked. And leave you feeling even more violated than normal.

Now I can only speak for myself and my experiences with PDs in South Africa. And what I remember about my visits is this – utter deference to you as a woman, sensitivity and understanding that what you are being subjected to is utterly embarassing, and highly sensitive. You come in, have a chat with PD, who listens intently, making the right (sympathetic) noises, who puts you at ease, and then gently points you to the dressing room where a pleasantly pink gown awaits you. You strip, but at least you have the protective armour of that gentle piece of pink fabric around you.

When you go into the exam room, PD has thougtfully left the room, giving you enough space to get comfortable (as you possibly can) and relax (well as much as you possibly can). The entire exam proceed with deference (that word again) and sensitivity to the whole unpleasant business which you are subjected to. No way will he/she directly look at your wooha without checking if you’re ok with whatever it is he/she is doing. Apologies abound for the cold instruments and the discomfort you feel. After all is done, you can pick up your pride and get dressed feeling relieved, with a measure of your dignity and delicacies intact.

Will the Germans be that sensitive? Hell NO!!! They won WW2 man, why should they approach this with anything other than German precision?!?!

They approach a vagina the same way they would a war: with clever tactics, the right tools, military precision and NO bullshit at all.

You are interrogated (not gently prodded and encouraged to share) about how, when, how many times, how long, why????! Interruptions during your explanations are common – but clearly they need to understand a few things (even though you had explained the whole wooha situation a dozen times) so they can plot and plan the next step in the mission as expediently as possible.

And then the examination.

There is no private room to get undressed in, just a little corner with a screen where you can get on with business, and no fluffy pink robe to hide behind. No sir, you have strip bare to the bottom (I kid you not), walk a mile from where you undressed to the exam chair (all the while trying to protect your delicacies) and hoping to God that no one else comes into the room (happened once before).

And then the dilemma – barefoot or with socks? I tried it once barefoot, and well, I felt even more exposed than I already was. I know this seems stupid, but somehow the socks gave me a sense of security. But the picture….there is NOTHING sexy about this.

Finally, you have to climb onto The Chair
that leaves you more exposed than the day you were born. Your legs are spread and on eye-level, feeling like the proverbial turkey being readied for stuffing. The doc comes, and starts cranking the chair up until, well, until your wooha is eye-to-eye with her. How rude. How mortifying. At this point I am literally counting the seconds until she’s done, trying to keep my pose, not letting on how absolutely humiliating this whole shebang is. And she continues about her business asif she’s browsing through a catalog!!! (ok granted, this is their business, but this is MY wooha, dammit!!)

And do you know that they do the backdoor without even asking permission? The first time she did that I almost jumped off the chair!! OMG!!! “Ehhhh!!!! Why?!?!” I asked, the bloody woman told me that they normally check the backdoor at this age, since it’s another way to detect abnormalities, etc. Fine, but I felt like screaming “I will tell you what is abnormal – me shoving my hand up your ass without permission!!!” I felt so violated, it took me weeks to recover from that. Thank God I’m not the only one this happens to.

Then I’m told I have to come back in 2 month’s time… Are you fucking kidding me?!?! I almost said that to her.

I walked out of there feeling that I needed a stiff bloody drink, and a therapist.

Men, it is any wonder we withhold sex, become raving lunatics during PMS and go mental on your asses when you don’t dance to our tunes? It’s because of all this bullshit we have to go through!

It bloody sucks balls to be a woman.

My Spotty Memory

I wish I could say that my spotty memory is due to middle age, but alas, that would be the easy way out, and hell, will I EVER admit to something like that?? NO!!! ;p.

I noticed over a decade ago that I was starting to “miss” a few details in my dreary life. Heck, sometimes I think I’m missing days if not weeks in my dizzy existence.

People – friends, family, even colleagues – would be sharing anecdotes about this-that-or-the-other, and I will be like “Nah, don’t remember it“. Some of the stories they would share, would get reactions of “What?!?! I would never….!!!!” from me, because it just sounded like something that I would never do or say. And the looks of sheer perplexion on these loved one’s faces that I could ever forget such details…..how should I feel, eh??

Of course, the family – being Boo and Boys – just completely take advantage of my cagey memory, and definitely take as many chances as they can in order to
1. get away with murder
2. make me feel bad
3. get something out of me
4. get away with murder
Opportunists. I like it.

Admittedly, my memory is hazy, but I hate anyone trying to take me for a ride because of it. Hence I don’t let on that I have absolutely no freaking clue what people are on about. If I’m not sure about what they are talking about (i.e. have no cookin’ clue), I would just make non-committal noises, e.g “Oh…yes…hmm…ya…” or whenever I can, try to get more details to jog the brain, such as “I don’t exactly recall, can you refresh….” That works like a charm. Most of the time. Other times I just get the evil eye from people, you know that “She’s missing the whole box of screws…” -look. Yeah, I’m crazy alright.

But, it is embarrassing at times too. When I can’t remember people who I met last week. Or what I said to someone-or-another at a party. Or if I can’t remember what I did a few days ago, after breakfast. I sometimes miss hours of my day. Horrible, isn’t it??

On the flip side, there are things that I remember as clearly as the day it happened. Go figure. I can’t say if it’s something about the event, the person, or my state of mind at the time. There is just absolutely no pattern there. If there was a pattern, I would cling to it like a lifeline, and use that in order to hold on to memories, to details. Alas. No such luck.

I just worry that I will forget completely. Forget the wonder of the boys growing up – the first time they really looked and recognized me as their mom, their first smiles, their first hugs and kisses, the first day at school, losing their first teeth. It’s already starting to get foggier.
That fills me with dread. That I may be left with nothing to remind me of the best times in my life

I think I should write this in a memoir.

To make sure that I have something to remember.

Midlife Chronicles – Take 1

I’ve decided to blog more frequently, by recording some of the sillier parts of my life.

Dizzy’s Midlife Chronicles it will be. Here’s part 1. Read it and weep. Or laugh. Your choice.

I went out tonight. With some friends (I hope). A few things I’ve noticed (I have some experience here, trust me)
1. I feel goddamn sexy after the 2nd glass of wine (or mojito or caiperina)
2. The oppostite sex feels the same way (judging from eye contact and body language)
3. I feel I can conquer the world
4. I have solutions to all my problems
5. I have questions to stuff I never even thought about (untapped intellect < get it??)
6. I feel I can conquer the world
7. I'm horny as hell
8. After walking around naked for about 20 minutes in front of hubby, I realise I could just as well have been wearing a sack (<what's wrong with this picture????)
9. I am not attracted to just any tom-dick-and-harry (I was worried for a bit there)
10. I wish I could bottle feelings 1, 3 & 6
11. Well, maybe I'll still get lucky 😛

G'night from way over here 🙂

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Reinventing Myself

I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I’ve last posted. Bet my followers thought “that’s it, she’s done, she’s gone and lost it”.

Well, actually, I lost it before I left….(<—that totally makes sense, doesn't it)

Guess I needed time to refocus, regroup, “re-whatever” in order to “get back, get sane(r) and on track”. It wasn’t intentional to be MIA for so long. Things just happened.

This past year has seen many changes. I’ve been to South Africa for about a month, it was fantastic. I’ve travelled here and there, for work, for personal pleasure. My older son has finished school. My other son started a German school at the ripe young age of 16 (<<< more stress). Husband (finally) completed his degree (yay)…There've been changes in the work front. There's been some bad things too – at a point I really could've done without – but that's life, eh. Just kicks you when you're down. I will not dwell on this now, this is fodder for a next post….

I've realised that what I've experienced was not so crazy and out of the ordinary at all. Many women face such challenges, and deal with it. Some deal better than others I guess. I fall in the "other" category :p

Now that I've accepted these challenges as my new reality, I am better, and stronger. Can't beat a good woman, eh? And I've decided – hell, yes – I am superwoman, and I'm bad-ass to boot 🙂

So here I am, back and wanting to reinvent myself. Not become someone else, but become a better me. Be less stressed, freak out less about the stupid things that tend to piss me off so much. Be more patient. Be a better wife and mom.

It’s like asking for the moon, right.

Here goes nothing….