Wednesday, Jul. 01, 2009

The Confessions of a Mad Housewife

This column has been updated from an earlier installment.

Being a girl isn’t easy.

We have emotions we will never understand, can’t always control and are constantly changing. At age 47, I have no more control over my emotions than when I was 6, 15 or 27. As I aged, I hoped I would be less emotional. I welcomed the "pre-menopausal me" with open arms because it was a sign that an "emotional Zen" was on its way.

But, as my bone density decreased, my emotional outbursts increased. I’ve always been a Helen Reddy "hear me roar" kind of woman, but over the last few years I’ve shed more tears than Tammy Faye Baker. I tear up when my kids strike a cute pose, when I read the newspaper and when I go to Bible study. Even the Hobson’s choice of paper or plastic and the resulting stress from polluting the environment or killing trees makes me blubber.

I decided it was time to talk to my doctor at my annual exam. Surely she had an answer for the overactive tear ducts, the nighttime sweats, the memory loss (which only strikes when talking to my husband) and the Titan of issues: the libido roller coaster.

I prepared for the exam like I do every year, with a thorough cleaning of all my nooks and crannies and a few others crevices that can only be located with a mirror.

With a Nurse Ratched bedside manner and a Wal-Mart greeter smile, the scrub-clad nurse began the visit by presenting me with a blue paper dress. I complied with the implicit request to disrobe and fretted over whether to tie a bow or square knot in the front of the crackling blue frock.

When the doctor arrived we discussed kids, the weather and vacations. I was working up the nerve to discuss my latest flaw.

Then, the stranger with medical degrees probed all the body parts I’ve told my daughters no one can touch until they get married. Before turning 40 the doctor only checked under the hood. Now she checks the front end with a breast vice and memorializes the experience by taking a picture. The low light of the exam is the back-end check which she apologetically introduces by saying, "this will be a little uncomfortable." If anyone can survive torture, it’s women.

A few years ago, I switched to a female doctor; before that I only patronized unattractive male doctors. A Dr. McDreamy type was out of the question. I could never manage a straight face talking to him through a stirrup frame. But, neither my female doctor nor my homely medicine man ever told me exactly what to expect as I age.

I finally asked my questions. No earth shattering insights were forthcoming.

Instead, I got the usual line about how everyone is different, we can’t predict the future and I’m too young for hormones. On the way home, I cried, again.

As I drove and wailed, I realized there is no cure for aging and the emotional journey that comes with it. I must channel Helen Reddy and accept my fate.

I need to celebrate my wisdom, experience and maturity. Maybe a vacation, shopping spree or the true cure-all, a girls trip would help?

I knew my husband would agree that my emotional happiness is worth the cost of a little R&R. As I considered my options, I felt a smile coming on and more tears … of joy.

Michele Valdez is a slightly compulsive, mildly angry feminist, past attorney and present volunteer. She lives with her demanding children and husband.