Freestyle Week 10

I’ll admit it, I didn’t want to even think about IBS. That’s some girlie disease like PMS. I don’t begrudge anyone (male or female) their right to any of those sorts of things but it just wasn’t going to be me. Well, it’s me. I won’t beg for forgiveness or excuse myself for my political incorrectness. Believe me, whatever vengeance has already been dished upon me.

So, I walk through the halls of my doctor’s office with those three letters plastered across the top of my chart (IBS) and I face the fact that I am a girl. I had to face it, admit and now I want to cure it. Make it go away. I don’t want to spend another half second thinking about my belly, planning my strategy holding it in. I just want to exist on the planet.

As I sat in the waiting room I read an article about menopause. Those symptoms were recognizable as well. Doesn’t matter that I just started school or that I have a 3 year old. Fact of the matter is that all of these issues are to be mine. The body is wearing down.

Oh, it was easy to sit comfortably at 35 and declare that I could go into the age thing gracefully. 35 was a breeze. It was also nearly 8 years, a pregnancy, two surgeries and a lifetime ago.

I put the magazine down and decided to watch Hagen. He makes me feel young and strong – vital even, sometimes. I consoled my feelings of wretched age and sagging everything with wisdom and lessons that I never need learn again. All those years of angst given up for happier pursuits. I am a student. I’m going for my doctorate in physics. I have a lot of living to do that really is only just beginning.

I checked my battle gear…I’m well armed. I have a great sense of myself and my place. I have learned enough about me to choose wisely my battles in my moral, familial and political lives. I’m working on getting my health squared away and a lot of bad things have been ruled out. Yep. I’m real. I don’t dye my hair to cover the grays. I think of each gray strand as a gray badge of courage. I’m proud of my age and my wrinkles. I can do the graceful aging thing.

The nurse called me in just as a smile was forming on my sullen face. As I walked past her holding Hagen’s hand and smiling she said “Oh, he’s so cute. Is that your grandson?”

One fell swoop and my armament was defeated. I was a fallen soldier on the battlefield of hope and graceful aging. I picked up my bruised and battered pride, got through the appointment and stopped at the drugstore on my way home. I’m thinking that I’ll go for the light brown hair coloring and how’s that whole Regenerist thing work? Who’s got info on Botox? To hell with grace. This is war.