If you are a man reading this blog post, please stop right now.  You hate hearing this kind of “women’s stuff” anyway, so please click on ESPN and check on the upcoming football games.

Now…for the Below-the-Waist Whine:

I will be 60 very, very soon.

I have no complaints about that.  In fact, I think it’s cool.  Oh, there are downsides to aging (lots and lots of downsides!!!) but as my friend Omar used to say, “Every day is a good day if you wake up in the morning.”

But Omar didn’t have ovaries.

I, on the other hand, have them.  And they won’t stop working.  The little buggers refuse to retire, refuse to quit pumping out whatever ancient eggs they’re still hatching in my nether regions.

Look, ovaries, no sperm in his right mind would look twice at those eggs.  Not even at 2 AM after the bar closes.  Not even on Bourbon Street on Mardi Gras afternoon.  Not even the night before the Superbowl or during the fireworks display at the Olympics Closing Ceremony!!!

These eggs–if they do exist and are not just figments of my hormones’ imaginations–are raisins.  Dried cranberries.  Mouse crap.  My ovaries are in denial about this.  Are they crazy?? Do they think they’re pumping out a future fat-cheeked Gerber baby?  Not in my lifetime, pal.

Blame this hostile blog post on the prednisone (aka steroids) I am now taking to end a 7-day hormonal migraine.  Blame this blog post on my having to have a 7:30 AM uterine biopsy.  Blame this blog post on my goddam should-be-non-reproductive equipment.

I am tired of cashiers raising their eyebrows at my Kotex purchases (last week the Austin cashier picked up the bag from the conveyor belt and smirked, “Are these yours?”

(what she really meant:  “You old bat, what are you, delusional? Or just too embarrassed to buy Depends???”)

(It is legal to carry concealed weapons in Texas.  Just sayin’.)

I am tired of having to answer the “when was the date of your last period” question before surgical procedures, then having the nurse look at me as if I have dementia and think I’m living in 1980.  And…I am tired of having pregnancy tests!

I am old, dammit!!!  I have the right to be old!!!

This afternoon I went out in the rain and, despite my vow to become agoraphobic, bought myself a garlic-pepperoni pizza.  Not for lunch.  Not for dinner.  Just for…my ovaries.  Because no doctors will remove them for me, I am going to kill them myself.  With cheese.