Dreaming of a White Christmas

One of my favorite movies to watch during the holidays is Christmas Vacation. It’s one of those movies that is so entertaining to me, I am immediately sucked in no matter the scene. Yet one particular scene that resonates in my head these days is when Clark (Chevy Chase) finds himself stuck in his attic. He stumbles upon some old home movies and since he is trapped and has nothing else to do, ends up watching them. The heartfelt nostalgia of happy memories brings him to the point of bittersweet tears.

This is where I am right now – but not because of what you might be thinking. It’s because of my white jeans. They have temporarily been removed from my outfit rotation. When I see old pictures of me sporting them blissfully happy yet oblivious to the impending separation…the tears start to well.  

Here’s why: Perimenopause.

Fellas – this may be where you want to tap out because not only won’t you understand, you won’t want to understand. You might start feeling uncomfortable and look for the nearest exit. Lucky for you, you don’t have to go through the humiliating process of watching your insides vacate your body in a horrible surrender. During this period (pun intended) of sporadic visits that are no longer consistent and reliable, it comes with the added bonus of resembling a murder scene in your pants. Almost immediately. I liken being premenopausal to getting a surprise visit from an unwelcome family member. Take Cousin Eddie from Christmas Vacation. There’s absolutely no warning of arrival. Clark is never prepared. Eddie is disgusting, intrusive, inconvenient. Thus, due to this lack of a warning system and the sheer nature of the floods that dispense, white jeans have become an unfortunate causality. Then, before you know it, cousin Eddie transforms into the main character from the prom scene in Carrie.

T-minus blood bath in
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

Hence, my most recent humiliating incident: The Holiday Party. Let me set the scene for you. I was standing with my husband Adam while drinking a really nice Cabernet. Laughing with my good friends and introducing myself to new ones – I delusionally felt like I was in the driver’s seat this time because I actually knew what my current southern situation was. Yes, it had caught me off guard earlier in the day, but I was able to divert from a holiday winter white ensemble into a safe pair of dark skinny jeans. Crisis averted. I’d been burned before so this time I did everything I was supposed to do. Wear dark clothes. Suit up the South immediately prior to departure. But ladies, don’t ever be as naïve as I was. Don’t ever feel like you have the upper hand. It was as if my insides thought we were playing a fun little game of ‘One Up.’ My body looked at my precautions as a challenge and almost two hours in to the party, I could tell what was happening. The tides had turned. That’s all it took. Prom scene. 

Horrified but trying to keep calm, I quietly asked my husband to look at my crotch. Sadly, during this fabulous stage of my life, it’s not a new request. Fortunately,  it’s one he doesn’t mind, so at least there’s that. 🤷‍♀️ But you know how people say “Don’t ask a question you don’t want the answer to?’ 

I asked.

Nervously I whispered “Can you tell I’m bleeding out?” He reassuringly said “No.” A sigh of relief washed over me only to have my sense of security immediately broken with the delivery of his next line … “Kinda looks like you peed your pants though.”

FAN–F’ING–TASTIC!!!! 

Thus commenced the stealth like evacuation process from a heavily populated extravaganza. I heard the theme music to Mission Impossible in my head as the panic sweats began. Or was this just another ill- timed hot flash?!?!

BLOODY HELL! 

I knew I had two immediate courses of action: Make no eye contact. Cover your crotch. 

With cat like moves we made it to the front door whilst Adam arranged for our Uber. Seven Minutes. Good God! SEVEN MINUTES??? No eye contact. Cover your crotch. After what seemed longer than a 5-year-old waiting for Christmas morning I felt we had to move. While silently praying that someone I knew wasn’t standing on the other side of the front door, we exited and headed for the street. No. Eye. Contact. Cover. Your. Crotch. Sweet glory of isolation. We had successfully avoided any witnesses to the crime scene on my pants.

Did I get lucky this time? I did. Will it happen again? 100%. See? This, my friends, is why I have to temporarily say goodbye to my favorite white jeans. I love them too much to warrant that kind of a risk. With that said, however, much like I’ll be reunited with my departed loved ones in heaven, I find a sense of peace knowing that after this slow agonizing death of my insides is over – my white jeans and I shall meet up again. 

Finally, in the spirit of the holidays, I’ve taken the liberty to rename some of our most beloved carols to further illustrate what this process is like for a woman in her mid 40s to late 50s.  Feel free to sing along.

  • Meno Pause is Coming to Town
  • O Holy Hell
  • Have Yourself Huge Sanitary Napkins
  • Oh Tampon-Baum
  • Frosty the Bloated
  • Joy to the Weight [Gain]
  • Hark the Hemorrhage Angels Sing
  • Silent Night, Sweaty Night
  • Carol of the Swells
  • Away in a Mood Swing
  • Little Town Insomnia
  • Good King Wence-Incontinence
  • Angels We Hot Flash on High
  • God Rest Ye Dying Uterus

Happy Holidays Everyone!

Enjoy those white jeans baby girl.
Enjoy. Those. Jeans.


Images:
Christmas Vacation: https://digbr.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/attic1_8col.jpg
https://lunkiandsika.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/national-lampoons-christmas-vacation-cousin-eddie-randy-quaid-1989.png
Carrie: Photo by Silver Screen Collection/Getty Images, https://www.southernliving.com/culture/classic-prom-dresses-movies-tv

10 Comments on “Dreaming of a White Christmas

  1. Yep, right there with ya. I was in the same boat til my hysterectomy three years ago.

    Hot flashes and weight gain are my current flavor.

    Liked by 1 person

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