Life, Liberty & Pursuit Of Your Boyfriend

Writing the word “hormones” is enough to get a female all riled up.

HORMONES. Right? You winced. I saw you.

The only reason why I think I’m receiving ads focused on hormone therapy is because I’m not posting pictures of my kids on Facebook.

Really. I’d settle for Purina cat food ads. You’re either a crazy cat lady or a shriveled-up hag in this unmarried 30-something world… oh my bad, we’re calling them horned-up cougars now? Give that woman an oral HCG! Moving on.

I succumbed to pressure of my elders peers and clicked on (to story linked up top there) to read about women’s health and the timeline of those pesky things that knock our personalities and emotions all out of whack. Seriously, FROM INFANCY.

From birth, ladies, we are doomed. Even before puberty, hormones are messing with our breasts because of our mothers.

I needed to blame her for something today. Thanks mom, your placenta lacked enough oestrogen necessary to pass on to me at LEAST a C cup. I’ll remember that next Christmas.

Somewhere around age 12 when I started… you know — ahem, when I “became a woman” the Gods skipped telling me that I was supposed to develop breasts before I started wearing Maxi Pads. Or, puberty didn’t hit until I turned 30.

I SWEAR I wasn’t born a boy.

But it’s possible that I was injecting hormones at the ripe age of 14 because MAN was I horny at an early age.

But how screwed are we as a gender? We barely nudge through middle school and now we have to worry about girls noticing our pubic hair. And that I like to stare exceptionally long at their fully-developed breasts and wonder when someone will snap MY bra strap!

The four years of puberty are a sunnamabitch.

Then how are we thanked for enduring all that trauma? With the ability to bear children. AS TEENAGERS. Oh, teenagers are not having sex? Huh.

Who will I talk to about all my lady parts maturing at lunch time?

Do you even remember the first time you used the word “vagina” among friends? Apparently you get one of these in junior high… or high school when someone finally tells you about how males and females make babies and you realize you, too, have one — even with a vulva! I sure wish someone would have told me about Fallopian tubes in sixth grade.

But likely I would have just teased boys that I had worms in my belly or something crazy like that. Sperm. I mean, I have fish in my belly. Gah. So confusing for middle school.

Meanwhile, high schools start to get fat in all the right places, and periods at all the wrong times. Eggs drop and fertilize if you’re not using that protection they won’t show you in health class, and you have to make your own appointment at Planned Parenthood just to be forced to stifle laughs at bananas and words like “rubbers.”

I hope my vagina doesn’t fall into pieces like that desk model.

Hopefully your LH, FSH, oestrogen and progesterone all regulate, so you’re not bleeding unnecessarily on chairs anymore — not like that hasn’t happened to EVERYONE at some point in her life, yet when it happens it is the ultimate of embarrassment.

I’m fairly certain that’s when I started my war with God. No God would allow ninth-grade Geography to continue with a seat covered in paper towels and a teacher who won’t let you find your sister for a change of shorts.

I have him (”God” not Mr. Miller) to thank for none of those pesky eggs to be fertilized by playing Spin the Bottle and staying up past my bedtime.

Maybe I still don’t know understand how babies are made.

If you’re lucky (and by “you,” I definitely do NOT mean me), babies and pregnancy will eff up your hormones for life. Or the next nine/ten months — it’s the baby itself that will destroy what life you had.

Scenario: Kmart. Two high school kids purchase a pregnancy kit and a can of tomato juice. One, your dog may have been sprayed by a skunk. Two, one of you definitely could be pregnant. HGC (in even trace amounts) in a woman is what determines “yeah!” or “boo!” on the pee stick.

Either way, the cashier telling you, “Good luck!” is just a bonus.

Then the cycle repeats itself, and your child will blame you for not passing along more hormones through the placenta to get boobs at a decent age. Would you cover up your boob, by the way, it’s leaking.

Some women are more susceptible to hormone fluctuations than others. Mild, PMS (which includes breast tenderness, bloat, general irritability and low mood) for one lady may be “I WILL KILL YOU!” for another. I grew up with three sisters and a mother and maybe a female cat who I swear were all menstrual synchronized.

I still want to hide in a closet for five days even from the memories.

Aging beautifully at 32, I have high hopes that menopause is just around the corner. While bonuses include: not being able to have babies and no more periods, side effects vary from hot flashes and night sweats (already have those, so I must be on the final countdown!) and osteoporosis (eat more dairy), to uh, vaginal discomfort (you try having sex with an eight-inch penis during a dry spell).

Regardless, I’m ready with the cases of lube in my storage facility when you are, menopause. And my HRT.

I got it on sale overseas.

Guys, if you made it through this, can you sympathize with us for at least 5-7 days this month? That would be swell.

Related posts:

1. Online dating before there was an “online” Yes, I’m old enough to remember accessing the internet by...
2. Feeling nostalgic about dressing up. Remember when prom dresses used to be fun and age-appropriate?...
3. What’s in the name: Mel? On the day of my birth, I was to be:...

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.