Macy’s, Menopause and The Men’s Room

by Mom Meets Blog

Recently actor and dad Ashton Kutcher and his 5 month old daughter Wyatt Isabelle were in the news. It seems that doting dad Ashton was rightfully miffed at the curious lack of diaper changing facilities in men’s restrooms. It’s 2015, people – dads change diapers! So what’s a dad to do when faced with a diaper changing dilemma? Will Koala answer the call and outfit men’s rooms across the nation with changing tables, or will desperate dads everywhere start storming the ladies’ room to avail themselves of their diaper changing facilities?

While it would be rather startling to walk in and see some guy in the ladies’ room (especially if it’s Ashton Kutcher!), having recently made my own foray into the men’s room, I’m hardly one to judge.

Allow me to explain.

I’m at a point in my life where hot flashes, night sweats, mood swings and yes, a fussy bladder have become a fact of life. A quick search over at WebMd bore this out:

During and after the process of menopause, levels of the female hormone estrogen drop significantly. In addition to controlling your monthly periods and body changes during pregnancy, estrogen helps keep the bladder and the urethra, the tube that carries urine out of the body, healthy.

Lack of estrogen may also cause the pelvic muscles responsible for bladder control to weaken, resulting in urinary incontinence.

While I haven’t started cruising the Tena aisle at the drugstore yet, lately the sense of urgency I feel when I have to pee is, well, pretty damn urgent. When I have to go, I. Have. To. Go.

And here comes the part about the men’s room.

I was shopping for my husband at Macy’s one afternoon when the urge hit. Having learned the hard way not to ignore it for too long (my first ever UTI a few months ago taught me well – thanks again, menopause!) I made my way to the ladies’ room only to find a burly plumber at the entrance, who informed me that it was closed due to a burst pipe, and that I should use the ladies’ room on the 1st floor. I was on the 4th floor. The men’s room was right next door. My brimming bladder felt like it was knocking against my uterus and ovaries, threatening to make a break for it.

I made, what seemed to me, a perfectly logical, rational decision. I was going to use the men’s room.

I have three younger brothers. I have a husband. I have a son. I know what boys look like. There was nothing in that men’s room that I hadn’t seen before. After all, I wasn’t going in there to look. I was going in there to pee.

The plumber watched me turn, make a right and start walking into the men’s room.

“Hey, you can’t go in there!” he called after me.

Now, I’ve always been a calm, reserved person; I play by the rules and don’t like to make a scene. But this stage of life has flipped a switch in me where my tolerance level for just about everything is at an all-time low – so dude, there is no way in heaven or hell that you’re going to tell me that I can’t go pee!

I turned to face him and replied sweetly, “Oh, really? Watch me.” Head down and eyes averted, I scurried into the men’s room (I think I caught a fleeting glimpse of some boots standing at a urinal, I can’t be sure) and plunged headlong into the first stall I came to. I locked the door, and stood there for a second, listening. Was the plumber going to call security to come hustle me out of the bathroom? Was there a guy wearing boots standing at the urinal ready to curse me out for invading this sacred man-space? Was I going to make it through this without peeing my pants?

All I heard was silence. I yanked down my Lululemon’s, squatted over the toilet, and mercifully, gratefully, peed. And peed. And peed. When I was done I slowly opened the stall door, stuck my head out and looked around. The men’s room was empty. I rushed out, quickly washed my hands at the sink and glided out triumphantly, the plumber nowhere in sight. But there was an elderly couple standing in the hallway who saw me exit the men’s room. They looked at me, looked at the “out-of-order” sign that was now in front of the ladies’ room, then quizzically looked to me again.

“It’s okay, go ahead – it’s empty” I whispered conspiratorially, nodding over to the men’s room. The woman gave me an amused little smirk and, shrugging her shoulders, walked in to use the facilities while her husband stood guard outside.

And, not that I was looking, but I don’t think there was a diaper changing table in that men’s room, either.

25Mar2012

A Midlife Moment

by Mom Meets Blog

This afternoon I met with my friend C. at our favorite neighborhood spot. A quaint bistro-style coffee-house that serves delicious sandwiches and salads, pastries and artisanal coffees (C. swoons over the perfectly blended iced coffee), we love to sit here and chit-chat over lunch. Occasionally I finish up my meal with a handmade salted caramel chocolate truffle – heaven!

While greedily devouring our eggplant, red pepper, zucchini and mozzarella sandwiches (on freshly baked Italian bread), C. mentioned how much she was enjoying the NBC musical drama “Smash”.

The conversation went something like this:

C.: “. . . and Debra Messing is amazing on this show, I love her.”

Me: “So do I, she is so funny. Is she wearing her hair curly or straight?” (I’ve recently stopped blow drying my naturally curly hair straight, thus alleviating my arm pain and most likely averting carpal tunnel syndrome. Knowing that Deb was a curly girl, I was curious).

C.: “Not pin straight, but wavy. She was so great in that other series, too, you know, the one where. . . oh, you remember. . . “

Me: “Yes of course, with that guy. . . what was it called again??? “

C.: “Yes, the one with Jack. . . “

Me: “Yes, and the other one – ugh, what is the name of that show???”

C.: “I just can’t think of it. . . . “

Me: “Neither can I – why can’t we think of that name???”

We stared at each other blankly. Neither one of us could come up with the name of that damn show, not for the next 45 minutes of our lunch date. Not even on the way home. I told her we were having a Midlife Moment – where you can recall some details of what you’re trying to remember, but you can’t quite remember exactly what it is you’re trying to remember. I felt like I was being punk’d by my own brain – the answer was just kind of dancing around the edges of my memory banks, then got yanked away just as it was about to descend onto the tip of my tongue. If you fall anywhere on the 40-spectrum, you might know what I’m talking about.

The funny thing about these Moments is that eventually you do remember what it was you were trying to remember. I finally remembered the name of the show. Nine hours later.

“WILL & GRACE for cryin’ out loud,” I text-yelled to C. “OMG!! Of course!” she texted back.

Sigh. I wonder if they can put some ginkgo biloba in those salted caramel chocolate truffles. Doesn’t chocolate have some memory enhancing properties? I think I read that somewhere, I just can’t remember where. . .

yummly.com

Are you “forgetting to remember” more often than usual? What are some of your Midlife Moments? Let me know (don’t worry, I’ll probably forget all about it!)

6Feb2012

Oh, the Hairs on my Chinny, Chin Chin!!

by Mom Meets Blog

The other day my 10 year old son asked me what puberty was. Caught a little off guard, I turned it around and asked him what he thought it was. “Well”, he began “Jay says it’s when your penis grows and you get hair down there.” Then he continued “Does everyone go through puberty? Did you go through it? Did Dad? Will I?” Taking a deep mental breath, I answered his questions calmly and simply. “Yes, everyone goes through it, yes, Dad and I went through it and you will too, but not for a couple of years yet.” Satisfied for the moment, he went about his 10 year old business. That little exchange reminded me that I’m wrestling with my own hair issues, and I don’t mean the hair down there. Because while my son, before long, will be sprinting down the road to adolescence, I’m slip-sliding along the perimenopause path, and confronting a rather disturbing side effect.

Currently hurtling through my 40s, I’m told that this grim turn of events is caused by a disruption in the delicate balance of the female sex hormones, sort of a second puberty. This go round on the hormone rollercoaster has resulted in dark, thick, coarse masculine hair sprouting on my chin. Not just one or two, more like 17 at last count, which was this morning. They look like the kind of facial hair I guess my son will be sporting in a few years. Ironic, isn’t it?

But the indignity doesn’t end there. Not only am I now competing with hubby to see who wears their 5 o’clock shadow best, but a couple of these unwanted whiskers have the audacity to grow in WHITE! As if having chin hair wasn’t appalling enough, I am sprouting salt and pepper chin hair. George Clooney might be able to pull off this look, but I feel like Ringling Brothers is going to knock on my door and offer me a sideshow gig any minute now.

While there’s not quite enough hair to coax into a trendy soul patch, there is enough that something has to be done about it. My grooming tool of choice is the tweezers. I’ve tried waxing, but that tends to make me break out (there goes that puberty thing again), and I’m not ready to go all pharmaceutical just yet. So, as each one pops up, I reach for my trusty Tweezerman and pluck it. Quickly. Painfully.

I’m hoping once actual menopause hits and the hormones start leveling off, this issue will resolve itself (are you listening, creeping belly fat??). If only I could transfer those hairs to my eyelash line, which seems to be thinning out as quickly as my hubby’s hairline. That’s what you’ll see if you open the medicine cabinet at my house – an assortment of tweezers and a bottle of Rogaine – midlife, we have arrived.