Poached, not hard-boiled
Angry Marna
Anyone who has known me for more than two weeks knows I bitch about my lady parts. Usually it’s a nice dose of sexual inactivity complaints, but the majority of the debate is about my period and 37-year relationship with Procter & Gamble products.
In the ’70s, male gyn’s generally felt the solution to long periods was a hysterectomy. Radical, it seems and yet after another 45-day period I felt it was the only modern-day solution. Bid my blood bag adieu. The $20-30/month saved on feminine products could be spent on alcohol. I searched on Blue Cross for a doctor and decided to find the oldest, whitest guy possible. Surely he’d authorize the surgery.
I assumed the position in the exam room and waited for him. The old guy waltzed in, looked at my card and my complaint and 10 seconds later said, “You have a confused uterus. You are 47 and your uterus isn’t producing the right levels of estrogen and testoserone so it doesn’t know if it should ovulate.” I tried to counter that with humor while he was blowing out the cobwebs and fingering me. “Well, living in Santa Barbara can confuse any uterus with the lack of viable, age-appropriate sexual partners,” I said.
A week later, biopsy results came back and I can’t blame any of this on cancer. I just have a confused uterus which means I’m going on birth control for horomone control, not because my lady parts are actually seeing combat. So, it looks like P&G and I will be best friends for a few more years.