Biggest Beauty Problems Vanish on Page 150.” I say aloud: “But what if they don’t and what if you have more than ten?” as I toss it on top of the “no” pile and slide all the rest of them over to form one big stack. Then I just stop.
Over the years, at the grocery store checkout, I’ve flipped through and read thousands of these articles, and by the time I reached the cash register, I’d already feel thinner, making it seem ludicrous to spend good money on the magazine. Last year I stopped buying them altogether when it finally hit me that in the years I’d been buying them, I’d never actually followed any of their diet or workout programs. I don’t even want to add up the number of exercise videos I have that I’ve never even broken the cellophane wrappers on.
If I had done half the things these magazines and videos had suggested, I would have been or would still be an emotionally balanced, picture-perfect mother of three in excellent shape who was also a great cook and who not only fulfilled her husband’s every sexual desire and fantasy but whose own would somehow have magically gotten met since she would have learned to ask for what she wanted, but this of course was assuming that I did in fact get it, which has turned out not to be the case.
I look at my watch. It’s two forty-three. I clear my throat, get up, and get some water from the dispenser.
“Mrs. Grimes, did you bring the questionnaire Dr. Hilton asked that you bring with you?”
I knew it was something I was supposed to remember to bring! “I forgot it.”
“Many do. Here’s another one. Fill out as much as you can, as quickly as you can and I’ll put it in your chart.”
The form required that I check “yes” or “no” if I had been experiencing any of the symptoms noted below, and there was room for explanation, if I thought it necessary.
Memory Lapses? Yes. Mostly words. My once fertile vocabulary has shrunk to that of an eighth grader and I find myself using profanity to compensate. Sometimes it feels just like it did when I smoked an occasional joint in college: I can walk into a room and completely forget what the hell I went in there for; open the fridge and stand there for long minutes wondering what it was I wanted. Sometimes I actually feel like I’m going nuts, but I know I’m not because if I was, I wouldn’t be thinking I was going nuts. Plus, I don’t have enough good reasons to go nuts. At least none I can remember.
Hot Flashes? Yep. It’s only been the past six or seven months, but it seems like they’ve evolved: it started out feeling like the inside of my body was being dabbed here and there with mild salsa and then a thick layer of very hot salsa. Now, I’ve had to switch from cappuccinos to decaf iced lattes because the combination of caffeine and hot liquid lingered inside me long after it passed through my body.
Mood Swings? Yes. For years I was just your average PMSer, but according to my mother-in-law: once a bitch, always a bitch.
Trouble Concentrating? Who doesn’t? But I always have: on things I didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about anyway.
Vaginal Dryness? Yes. Hah! Only when Leon didn’t give me any advance notice that he had something in mind and before realizing he was already “inside the doorway to my love” so to speak. Dry was putting it mildly. It’s probably closer to a big clam, like the ones you see in an aquarium: they’re cracked wide open until you walk up and tap on the glass and then they snap shut. Except of course when I allow myself the freedom to fantasize and pretend that it’s Rick Fox or the bowlegged guy from CSI: Las Vegas or the brother with the gray eyes from CSI: Las Vegas or the Latin brother on CSI: Miami or David Beckham or Sting or Seal or Ian Thorpe’s father or Delroy Lindo or Omar Epps or the African brother from the movie Amistad who said “We want free,” but then he also did a guest run on ER. On any given night any one of
Over the years, at the grocery store checkout, I’ve flipped through and read thousands of these articles, and by the time I reached the cash register, I’d already feel thinner, making it seem ludicrous to spend good money on the magazine. Last year I stopped buying them altogether when it finally hit me that in the years I’d been buying them, I’d never actually followed any of their diet or workout programs. I don’t even want to add up the number of exercise videos I have that I’ve never even broken the cellophane wrappers on.
If I had done half the things these magazines and videos had suggested, I would have been or would still be an emotionally balanced, picture-perfect mother of three in excellent shape who was also a great cook and who not only fulfilled her husband’s every sexual desire and fantasy but whose own would somehow have magically gotten met since she would have learned to ask for what she wanted, but this of course was assuming that I did in fact get it, which has turned out not to be the case.
I look at my watch. It’s two forty-three. I clear my throat, get up, and get some water from the dispenser.
“Mrs. Grimes, did you bring the questionnaire Dr. Hilton asked that you bring with you?”
I knew it was something I was supposed to remember to bring! “I forgot it.”
“Many do. Here’s another one. Fill out as much as you can, as quickly as you can and I’ll put it in your chart.”
The form required that I check “yes” or “no” if I had been experiencing any of the symptoms noted below, and there was room for explanation, if I thought it necessary.
Memory Lapses? Yes. Mostly words. My once fertile vocabulary has shrunk to that of an eighth grader and I find myself using profanity to compensate. Sometimes it feels just like it did when I smoked an occasional joint in college: I can walk into a room and completely forget what the hell I went in there for; open the fridge and stand there for long minutes wondering what it was I wanted. Sometimes I actually feel like I’m going nuts, but I know I’m not because if I was, I wouldn’t be thinking I was going nuts. Plus, I don’t have enough good reasons to go nuts. At least none I can remember.
Hot Flashes? Yep. It’s only been the past six or seven months, but it seems like they’ve evolved: it started out feeling like the inside of my body was being dabbed here and there with mild salsa and then a thick layer of very hot salsa. Now, I’ve had to switch from cappuccinos to decaf iced lattes because the combination of caffeine and hot liquid lingered inside me long after it passed through my body.
Mood Swings? Yes. For years I was just your average PMSer, but according to my mother-in-law: once a bitch, always a bitch.
Trouble Concentrating? Who doesn’t? But I always have: on things I didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about anyway.
Vaginal Dryness? Yes. Hah! Only when Leon didn’t give me any advance notice that he had something in mind and before realizing he was already “inside the doorway to my love” so to speak. Dry was putting it mildly. It’s probably closer to a big clam, like the ones you see in an aquarium: they’re cracked wide open until you walk up and tap on the glass and then they snap shut. Except of course when I allow myself the freedom to fantasize and pretend that it’s Rick Fox or the bowlegged guy from CSI: Las Vegas or the brother with the gray eyes from CSI: Las Vegas or the Latin brother on CSI: Miami or David Beckham or Sting or Seal or Ian Thorpe’s father or Delroy Lindo or Omar Epps or the African brother from the movie Amistad who said “We want free,” but then he also did a guest run on ER. On any given night any one of
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