Aunt Flo Needs to Lose My Address

I will be 48 on November 1.

As I write this, that is 24 days away. Twenty-four days until my birthday, and apparently nobody has notified my uterus that we are approaching retirement.

Because Aunt Flo is still kicking in my fucking door like she’s SWAT.

No phone call. No text. No “Hey, niece, you home?”

Just a boot through the door and a warrant to ruin my week.

And I would like to know who keeps giving this bitch my address.

At this point, I feel like I have served my time. I have grown children. I have bills, businesses, writing projects, and enough shit to remember without keeping track of whether the pain in my abdomen means my period is coming today, next Thursday, or sometime during the next presidential administration.

I know bleeding at 48 can happen.

I am saying I would like to unsubscribe.

There should be a button.

Every other unwanted thing in my life has an unsubscribe button. Granted, half of them don’t work, but at least somebody pretends to respect my boundaries.

My uterus doesn’t even offer that courtesy.

The real disrespect is the advance notice.

Now, you might think advance notice would be helpful.

It would be if the notice contained a fucking date.

Instead, I get symptoms and pain three weeks before she actually shows up.

Three. Weeks.

What am I supposed to do with that information?

“Oh, you’re coming?”

“Eventually.”

“Should I put a pad on?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I make plans?”

“Try it.”

This is not a menstrual cycle. This is waiting for somebody to deliver furniture.

You’re told to be available, nobody can give you a useful arrival time, and somehow you lose your entire day.

Except my delivery window apparently lasts most of the month.

By the time the bleeding starts, I am already tired of a period I haven’t technically had yet.

How the fuck do you arrive late to an event you have been announcing for three weeks?

Then there’s the endometriosis.

For years, I’ve heard about hormones and my cramps. Hormones this. Hormones that.

Meanwhile, I’m standing here going, “Bitch, what hormones? I thought we were shutting this department down.”

Now, before somebody comes into the comments carrying a medical textbook, yes, I checked: the transition toward menopause does not mean your hormones have disappeared. They can fluctuate unpredictably. The average age of menopause is around 51, and natural menopause is generally marked by 12 consecutive months without a period.

Fine.

So the hormones are still here.

That actually makes me angrier.

Because if they’re still on the payroll, why is nobody supervising them?

Who approved the cramps? Who authorized the surprise bleeding? And which department signed off on the fucking pimples?

Yes. Pimples.

On my face.

I am almost 48 years old, and my face is apparently getting ready for homecoming.

I should not be looking in the mirror trying to figure out whether I need something for fine lines or something from the teenage acne aisle.

Pick an age and let me shop.

There is something deeply insulting about being old enough to have adult children and still getting a zit that looks like it needs permission to go on a field trip.

And please don’t tell me it makes me look younger.

Younger where?

Because the pimple looks 16.

The woman carrying it has a utility bill.

Then somebody says, “Well, the age your mother went through menopause might give you an idea.”

Apparently, your mother’s menopause timing can be a clue. A clue, though not an appointment confirmation.

Wonderful.

My mother had a hysterectomy when she was about 36.

Now what?

Y’all sent me to the family history department, and the records end in surgery.

I don’t know what age she would have naturally stopped having periods. I don’t even know all the details of what she had going on back then. I know she needed surgery, she had it, and the bleeding stopped.

And a hysterectomy does not automatically mean immediate menopause if the ovaries remain. Removing both ovaries is a different situation. So her periods stopping at 36 cannot tell me when mine will stop naturally.

In other words, my mother got off the bus.

I’m still riding around asking the driver where the fuck we’re going.

Nobody knows.

Everybody just keeps saying, “Every woman is different.”

Baby, I understand that.

I would like information about this woman.

The one standing in front of you with cramps and a birthday approaching.

Can we get her an estimated completion date?

Because getting older as a woman already involves enough adjustments without my reproductive system making surprise appearances like an ex who heard I was finally doing well.

I am trying to enjoy my life. I am trying to write. I am trying to work. I am trying to get through an ordinary day without wondering whether my lower abdomen is warming up for something or just hurting for the hell of it.

And I am tired of the assumption that because women experience this stuff, we should quietly carry on.

We’ve gotten very good at carrying on.

That doesn’t mean it feels good.

That doesn’t mean we aren’t exhausted.

And being able to make a joke about pain does not mean the pain is minor.

Changes in bleeding should still be discussed with a health care professional, even during perimenopause. I can laugh at Aunt Flo and still want somebody qualified to investigate what the hell she’s doing.

Because my actual goal is relief.

But while I’m waiting, I would like to file a complaint.

Aunt Flo, you have overstayed your welcome.

You show up unannounced. You cause pain before you arrive. You interfere with my plans. And somehow, after all these years, I’m still the one buying supplies for your visit.

You have never brought a birthday present.

Never helped with a bill.

Never once said, “You look tired. Let me leave you alone this month.”

November 1 is coming, and I want cake, peace, and the ability to celebrate without checking my underwear.

If you insist on coming, at least call first.

And if you kick my door in again, bitch, you’re paying for the hinges.

Note from the Author

There is a little bit of truth in every story I post. This one came with cramps.