Bring it On

I always thought these were for old people at the beach.

My birthday is tomorrow, and I just got a really original gift. The news that I am officially in menopause!

The change of life! The Big M! Or if you really want to be euphemistic, simply ... The change... My cute little 67-year-old doctor tapped me on the knee and said, "Now, you can call yourself a grown-up!" Everyone knows I love new experiences, so really, this is cool with me. Actually, it's hot with me, but you get the idea.

Instead of throwing myself a birthday party, I've decided to throw myself a menopause party. No one is invited, of course - who'd want to be subjected to the unpredictable mood swings? But I do have a wish list of birthday presents, and until I find a shop called "Menopause 'R' Us" at which to register, this will have to suffice:

* A deluxe hand held personal battery operated misting fan ($16.95 on Amazon.com)
* Bedsheets made out of that same kind of high-tech moisture-wicking material that mountaineers use (try Patagonia or the North Face)
* Pajamas made of same
* Oh, heck, just a spare, dry bed to move into in the middle of one of those sweat-soaked nights

That's what I'm talking about!

* Plenty (I mean PLENTY) of Xanax
* A five-year supply of Replens
* If Natural News is to be believed, then I'll need a supply of Black Cohosh, Wild Yam, and Ginseng. And flax seeds. All organic, if possible.
* Last but not least, in the increasingly unlikely event I ever have sex again, an extra large bottle of Astroglide. (Oh wait. I already have that. I'm such an optimist!)

I have wondered about this for several years now. It's nice that the limbo is over. The Big M is on. Just another in a long line of life adventures, as far as I'm concerned.

Turn It Around

See me? I'm the soaking wet one.

I was all set for motorcycle safety class at the technical college in Columbia. I'd been told to expect a roomful of young guys and an instructor in leather chaps who sauntered around asking each person why he was taking the class. Almost all of them would answer "To meet girls."

I was so excited by this prospect. I was going to position myself in such a way as to be the last one asked, so that I could shock them all by answering, "To meet girls." Oh! I was going to be so funny, the class clown!

Imagine then, my disappointment when, not only was the instructor not wearing leather chaps, but out of eleven students, nine of us were women. Actually, I wasn't disappointed at all. Female Power! When it was my turn to answer why I was taking the class, I said, "I'm tired of riding bitch." Which was, in fact, the truth.

We spent precious few hours in the dry warmth of the classroom. We bitchen biker babes (and two unremarkable guys) spent twelve hours in the pouring rain "on the range." The high both Saturday and Sunday was 44 degrees. I'm not whining. Okay. I'm whining. Where was that hot March weather that caused my impulse purchase of a motorcycle last weekend? The only thing that kept it from being utter misery was this thought: I'm learning to ride a motorcycle!

Notice Grumpy's big black and yellow umbrella. Grrr.

There were two teachers. One (let's call him Friendly) was nice when we screwed things up, couldn't navigate the tightly-spaced cones, dropped bikes. Friendly would gently correct and then, when we got it right, he'd smile broadly and clap and say, "Yeah! There you go! Good job!" The other one, Grumpy, yelled a lot, and groaned, and yelled some more. "No, no, NO!" He'd scream. On the off chance we did something right, the best we could hope for was a grunt.

When it came time for the road test, I am sure I'm not alone when I say how much I dreaded putting my cold, wet crotch back on that cold, wet seat for another round of Grumpy's yelling. Two of us were hypothermic to the point of teeth chattering. We sat on our wet bikes in our wet clothes waiting our turns to complete seven impossible exercises, like make two consecutive U-turns in a blue box the size of my living room without going outside the lines. Then get the bike up to 18 miles per hour and come to a sudden stop in an orange box the size of a laptop. The colors were impossible to distinguish on the wet pavement in the gray light of the late, rainy afternoon.

We did it!

Discouraged and discontent, hungry, and shivering, I was sure I was failing.  I completed only one U-turn and it was well outside the lines. When I stalled in the little orange box, Grumpy said "Arrgh." His pen seemed to move independently as it checked boxes on his clipboard in a very negative way.

In the end, we sat in the classroom watching an extremely boring video on DOT Snell motorcycle helmets while casting surreptitious glances as Grumpy scored our tests. That might have actually been worse than riding in the rain. But when he did the first nice thing he'd done all weekend and handed out bright orange envelopes to every last one of us, we celebrated with stale Krispy Kremes and took turns drying our crotches with the Xlerator hand dryer in the women's bathroom.

We were ready to ride.

Bought It

One thing is certain - I am methodical. I make lists. I plan ahead. I avoid crowds and stick to a budget and am responsible with money. I grocery shop on Sunday mornings when everyone is at church.

I am also impulsive, bipolar, given to flights of ideas, and I-Swear-To-God-Unwanted Drama. These things define me as much as methodical does. Some might say I'm balanced. Others would stick the prefix un before it.

One warm - which is to say HOT - March Saturday, I went motorcycle shopping with a friend. I wasn't yet ready to buy a bike - I'd carefully planned to complete my rider's safety course first. This would be window shopping, and I thought my friend was a safe bet. He's the one with the 900 pound VMax who, a mere two weeks earlier, was in a near fatal accident on his bike. Confined to bedrest with most of his ribs broken and his clavicle mashed, he repeatedly said that me getting a bike was an extremely bad idea.

Bedrest bores a person, I guess. He became my secretary from his sedentary position. He made all the Craigslist contacts, set up the appointments, and picked me up at 9:00 am on the appointed Saturday. Then he chauffered me from one location to another. Somehow, despite being cautious, especially when something costs more than $50, I managed to write a check for 38 times that amount and bought myself a bike.

Then my broken-ribbed friend with the mangled clavicle rode my new bike on the Interstate back to my house - in a short-sleeved shirt and no helmet.


AND I THOUGHT HE WAS THE REASONABLE ONE!

Back at my house, he put 'er in neutral in the driveway and told me to ride across the threshold into my backyard. Excitedly, I took the helm and half rode half walked my little Rebel into the garden. A couple of days later, I got a wild hair and decided to ride her around the garden. This proved difficult in weeds and grass and mud from a recent rain. Also, not knowing how to ride a motorcycle added to the drama. I almost crashed into the fence, then kept stalling as I tried to back the bike up. Where is reverse on this thing? Oh. Right. Better leave her parked till that class next weekend.