Written 23 June 2010



Last Monday, during a menopausal, hormone induced rage I called my doctor and told the office manager, Poor Mary, "Hey, this is Crystal Lutz and I only have THREE thyroid pills left! I need to make an appointment this week to get these pills refilled. I'm serious. These tiny little pills control my weight, i.e., my state of mind, self image, attitude, the stability of my marriage and my child's overall well being, etc." She said "ok" and forwarded me to the nurse. I told the nurse I could come in any day but Tuesday as I have a newspaper to put out on Tuesdays. She said "ok" and she'd call me back. They didn't seem as concerned and I about my critical situation. On Wednesday I realized, during a menopausal, hormone induced rage that I only had ONE pill left and NO appointment. I called my doctors office and told Poor Mary "Listen, I CALLED YOU PEOPLE ON MONDAY AND TOLD YOU THAT ... AND NOW I ONLY HAVE ONE PILL LEFT AND I'M ON MY THERE! Poor Mary said "ok" and transferred me back to the nurse. The nurse very calmly told me to go ahead and come in. I said "I AM!" When we hung up God played it all back to me in my mind and I sound precariously like a crack head. Whatever.
When I got there the staff was fine, very lackadaisical actually, but I was all a twitter (there's that crack head behavior again...) wondering if they were going to take my blood and GIVE ME MY PILLS! Or, call in the mental authorities (are crack heads paranoid) ...they just took my blood and gave me my pills. I love my doctor! I felt better and decided to get a spray tan too. Tan fat looks soooo much better than white fat!
Armor Thyroid is what I'm taking and you'd think after 3 months I would have lost the few pounds I gained before I realized...but nooooooo. I had to get on the treadmill for 40 minutes to an hour every single flipping day! Oh, the pounds just fell off...not. Then my knee started killing me and I was limping around like a...middle aged woman or something so my husband banned me from the treadmill. Humh. My husband prefers the extra few pounds over the excessive moaning, groaning and endless belly-aching. Not to mention the poor fella has to wait on me hand and foot while I prop up my injured knee. (Ok, some of the whimpering could be a dramatization but the pain IS immense.)
The night sweats came back last week then left again. I really wish they'd make up their twisted mind. Maybe they have to share their time with another middle-aged woman. Speaking of "middle-age", when and how did I go down the rabbit hole? Speaking of rabbits; Mother Nature has YET to visit me in over 3 months and I hear the best time (in the middle of your life when the last thing you want is a new born baby) to get pregnant is while going through menopause or taking thyroid medication. And BAM! Just like that! I'm 2 for 2! For the record, if I get pregnant my doctor is going to have to prescribe a lot more than thyroid meds. I wonder if Brookshire Brother's Pharmacy carries Psychotic ...I'm just sayin'.
Anyway, I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around (anything actually) the fact that I still feel about 28 (except for the bad right knee, the night sweats, the tanking thyroid, mood swings (see, the word swing intimates fun, but no.), the endless supply of reading glasses surrounding my life-I swear they self multiply) but I'm actually 45. Really? I mean I still want to go salsa dancing. Well, in my mind I do anyway. I haven't actually gone salsa dancing in several years, but I want to. I also want to water ski and roller blade. I haven't actually gone water skiing and roller bladeing but I want to. I really do. Oh, oh, oh-I did ride in a boat last Wednesday.
I guess that’s the long and short of it these days – the mind wants to dance and the body wants to sit this one out. Is THAT what middle age is all about? I think it’s a cruel joke that we feel one way inside – that would be young – but the body is beginning to put on the brakes. I don’t think I like this sudden turn of events, so what do I do about it? Well, my bff says she’s going to fight it all the way. She’s going to keep salsa dancing until she drops – and she actually DOES dance, by the way, and she’s MUCH older than I am! Hey, I think I just dissed myself. I’m bellyachin’. She’s dancin’. Hmmmmm……
I keep hopin and wishin and prayin, that all this will just go away and I’ll wake up with the firm skin, flat belly and energy level I had just a few short months ago. I’ll be able to sleep through the night without waking up drenched in sweat. I will not longer yell at people willy nilly. Oh wait, I’ve always done that. Snicker. I’ll be able to bike and run and dance to my heart’s content. Yeah, it could happen. Why just this morning my dahling husband said "We just need to ride our bicycles. We have a great path at the country." naturally, he said it in an elated, slightly euphoric mood donated by the great cup of coffee in his hand, the early hour and the lush, leather recliner he was sitting in releasing all his pheromones at once. I just can't wait to go home tonight and load up those bikes and hit that "path". ROFLMAO!

I’m gonna get “Bark OFF” for him!

To Kill A Squirrel

Written 24 May 2012


Seriously. The whole menopause (Men. Oh! Pause before you speak) thing is just out of control. And so am I. And so are my hormones. I blame EVERYTHING on my hormones now. It's really kind of liberating. You can find me most anywhere these days saying "My hormones did it."
The night sweats (NS) are gone. However, I have a sneaking suspicion they'll be back. They were too mild some of my (used-2-b) friends said. So, my luck they're just on hiatus. Visiting some other poor unsuspecting 40something year old woman with that crazed-what-the-hedoublel-is-happening-TO-ME look in her otherwise normal eyes.
That's the good news. The bad news is that crying has replaced sweating. Maybe that's why NS left. Surely there's not enough water even in a killer whale's body to produce all that it takes to support night sweats AND all the sobbing I am doing. And doing. And doing.
Dancing with the stars was on the other night and I was sitting in the recliner doing the ugly (chest heaving, snot producing) cry when my husband walked in (on me). Some things are private. So husband says, in a very scared and concerned tone, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" "Derek and Nicole just did the most beautiful tango I haahaavvve eeeevv veeerrr r seeeenn."
Mr. Smarty pants said "ARE YOU SERIOUS?" The amazing thing is that he's still alive. The spinning head did scare him a little though. As if a beautifully choreographed, well executed tango is not something to cry over. Men. I really have yet to figure them out. NO appreciation for the arts.
Attention to hairdressers around the globe: Menopause is serious and should be considered a narcotic in case your otherwise normal customer walks in and says "Chop it off". I look like a little boy. And when I cry I look like a sad little boy. And MY hairdresser has been was my friend for 45 years! (Shameless plug for Cynthia Thibodeaux @ Studio 3 on University Blvd. Houston, TX)
Attention to women around the globe going through menopause: If you hairdresser is ALSO going through menopause change hairdressers. Cuz she WILL chop it off! Oh, she just can't WAIT to chop it off. Anything will do but since you're offering up your hair, her husband is safe for yet another night. Don't sacrifice yourself this way. You torture your family and let her torture hers.
Not that the haircut isn't adorable. It is. But she should have stopped at the first hair cut she gave me. It was cute. It was already blow dried and fixed. Then I said "Cut it shorter." And she did. So there. But men typically like long hair. And my husband falls in that category. I cry just thinking about him not liking it.
And on top of EVERYTHING mother nature STILL hasn't visited me and everyone keeps dangling the dead rabbit theory in front of me. I'll tell you about a dead rabbit. Or was that a squirrel? Anyway, it ran out in front of me the other day while Air Supply was singing "All out of love" and well, yes, I was crying and things were blurry but I thought maybe I'd missed him by some small animal miracle but the bump, the bump is always bad news. "My hormones did it."
Then I skinned it , boiled it, fed it to the family and called it chicken. "My hormones did it."