There’s Proof: God Is a Man

God and menopause. Wondering how they relate? How they impact one another? What their interconnectedness might be? Give up? Okay, I’d like to definitively propose that God is a man; the existence of menopause proves my theory. Now I know that female Oscar winners and Oprah might claim God is a girl—or at least could be a girl—but I think menopause pretty much clinches the argument. No woman could have designed this endocrinology nightmare. It’s just that simple.

[SIGNUP]I’ve been dancing around this whole menopause thing for a couple of years now and thought I was handling it fairly well. With lots of girlfriend support and some nifty meds, I thought everything was under control. That was until my husband dropped 40 pounds. Yup, the guy decided to hold his breath one day and 40 stinking rotten miserable pounds just dropped off his frame. I’m watching him waste away with about the same effort I would use to lose 40 ounces. He watches what he eats, sure, but lots of fat and calories and crap still are going past his lips. He exercises, you bet, but he’s no Tony Little. Nope, I swear he just thinks about it and, whoosh, the pounds disappear.

Now, around a normal, sane and self-assured woman, that would pose no threat. But a menopausal one? While he’s dressing in the morning, lamenting that he needs to put another hole in his belt, I’d like to sneak up behind him and put a hole in his head with a sledgehammer. Just tip-toe right up behind him and … whack! Then I’d never have to hear about his goddamn belt again. He dresses in a suit that fits perfectly. (Oh wait, a little loose at the waistline? There’s nothing behind my back, dear, just a machete.) He looks in the mirror and knots his tie. (Let me help you with that. What, too tight? You’re turning blue? Poor baby. Poor skinny baby.)

I look in the mirror and I see old and wrinkled. He looks in the mirror and sees older and distinguished, you know, like that ass in the five-minute ad about hair color for men. I’m tired; he’s Mr. Zippy. I’m loath to even say the word gym, and he’s doing sit-ups in the morning. Every morning. His weight is now the same as when we first met; mine remains the same as the day I gave birth to my daughter.

I’ve seen the doctor and read all the information. I know this is temporary hormone havoc playing with my weight, my skin, my hair, my joints and my energy level. The experts promise that there is light at the end of the tunnel and that I should persevere with optimism that I can enjoy good health and well-being in my “golden years.”

Personally, I’m thinking the sledgehammer will give me more immediate satisfaction.