Dear Menopause

Dear Menopause –

I am writing because have a few things to get off my chest, not including my droopy breasts. First, can I have my brain back? I find myself tending to the wrong dental appointments, working on Banana-gram brain teasers, perplexed while staring at a word already created – “suffix”. When I speak, words tumble out of my mouth as if I were dyslexic. When I write, word choice and sentence structure elude me. I never know what time it is, and despite asking that age-old question, my lack of knowledge is not as poetic as Chicago’s rendition might lead you to think.

Second, can you please turn down the outdoor thermostat? Enough of these days where the heat index registers 100+ degrees. I am getting hot flashes when I greet the UPS man at the door, and he mistakenly thinks I am coming on to him. Also, for the sake of my once taut stomach, I would prefer not to be wearing clothes that bare or cling, such is the case with summer wardrobes. I should have stayed in Oregon, at least ‘til menopause had passed.

Ok, third, and this one is important. Can you at least write down your schedule on my calendar? I tell my kids, and even my husband, “If its not on the calendar, it doesn’t happen…” They hear me squawk, whenever an event appears out of thin air but shows no signs of having been written down. You are no different. If you can’t put it on the calendar with any consistency, you have no reason to show up erratically, and unannounced.

Fourth, previously I asked about turning down the thermostat, but is there any way you can turn it back up? I get chills in the evening and, when reading a book, with a nice glass of wine, need to cover up my feet with an orange, green and white afghan crocheted for me by a friend.

Finally, can you get together with the Pope and put my husband first in line for beautification? I know Mother Teresa and Pope JPII are already in the Vatican’s piepline. But I am convinced that my husband’s cross to bear (without including my family) is equal to theirs. Yes, there is already a St. Mark, and he’s got a whole square named after him in Venice. But I am thinking something more along the lines of St. Mark of Stonemark Lane. Has a certain ring to it, right? Just please, no pigeons. He hears enough clucking from me.

Sincerely,

Me