The Change

I spent the afternoon of my 50^th birthday in my primary care physician’s office, enjoying our annual visit.

We exchanged perfunctory greetings. How am I? Peachy. I pictured a wicker basket full of peaches, on top of a red-checker enrobed picnic table that screamed, “Summer greetings.”

How’s life? Great. The only way it could be better today was if I were wearing a party hat, blowing out fifty candles on a fire-alarm, mile-high chocolate cake. It would take dozens of firefighters hours to sift through the molten lava of sugar, saturated fat and cholesterol to find any nutritional value. But that wasn’t going to happen, and in my world, celery was the new chocolate, so I dined accordingly.

She got down to business. Sit up. Lie down. Sit up. She buzzed over me like a fly and poked at me like a bear. Does this hurt? Does that hurt? Does this hurt? No. No. No. Are you dry “down there?” No. Are you wet “down there?” No. But perhaps I needed to consider upgrading my antique Maytag washer/dryer combination that I had purchased in the 1800s. I didn’t need any leaky old artifacts my age lying around.

“Are you queasy or sneezy?” Are you cutely asking me if I’m experiencing side effects from my medications, or if I’m one of Snow White’s seven dwarfs? No.

I buckled up for a long, agonizing afternoon. “Let’s discuss your medications,” she said. What was there to discuss? I was taking a pill for every letter of the damned alphabet. She dragged me, kicking and screaming, on a tour from atorvastatin to Zyquil.

Somewhere between melatonin and Neosporin, I transformed into a zombie, sprouted horns and wings and flew over Mars and then Proxima B. When I returned from my space odyssey, I thought, can I leave now? Apparently not.

“Next we’ll discuss your vitamins,” she said. My birthday party from hell was just beginning. “I take a Flintstone chewable every day,” I assured her.

“You’ll need something far more substantial than that at your age,” she said. Okay, well then where can I buy the entire cast of Disney chewables?

She frowned and said, “I see that during the pandemic, your heart wasn’t pumping blood properly.” “That’s right,” I replied. “During the pandemic, I was unemployed, depressed and slept all day. But all is well now. I’m working full-time and my new employer expects me to be awake for 8 hours day. Staying awake is doing wonders for my mental and physical health.” That and the Losartan.

“Your blood pressure is a bit high. Do you know how to manage it with diet and exercise?”

“Yes,” I said dutifully. “Oatmeal with cinnamon for breakfast and a glass of low-sodium tomato juice. Celery and carrot sticks for lunch. Watermelon for a hydrating snack. A large salad with protein and vegetables for dinner, plus unlimited water and green tea with lemon and ginger throughout the day.”

Good thing she didn’t ask about my late night snacks and adult beverages. That’s when the fun begins.

“Are you exercising every day?” That depends on what you mean by exercise.

“I walk around a lot,” I replied. Does sleepwalking count? I'm asking for a friend.

She continued, “You’re in menopause now.”

Alarms sound in my mind. Well, you just wait a minute. Don’t even go there. I thought I was the epitome of the teen heroine played by Dakota Johnson in “Fifty Shades of Gray,” the coming-of-age romantic saga that Lifetime TV broadcasts at least fifty thousand times a month to torment me.

She continued, “You need to take vitamin D and calcium supplements daily to increase your bone density.”

“Will do.” No argument there. Can I leave now? I must rush home to vacuum my carpet and water my polyester flowers.

“Let’s review your immunizations,” she continued.

No. Please, if you let me go now, no one will ever have to know that you kidnapped me and held me hostage for over an hour. I swear, I’ll never tell a soul! Please, please, let’s forget that today ever happened, and we can both move on with our lives!”

That night, after our visit, I felt migraine clouds storming in. Following strict protocol, I downed a vitamin D soft gel with a whiskey sour and a mallowmar cookie.

I woke up in 1983 in my elementary school cafeteria, in the middle of the “Menstruation Movie.” I was 12 years old, and change was in the spring air.

The black and white movie was hosted by a man dressed in a black and white suit. He looked, dressed, and sounded like Alfred Hitchcock. When he talked about sperm fertilizing eggs, I heard a screeching violin, and saw tens of thousands of birds landing on the school roof, followed by a blood-curdling scream: mine.

Tammy and I sat in the back of the cafeteria, laughing at the film noir parody, and when all the “cool” girls turned around to stare us into silence, I realized that we wouldn’t be receiving pool party invitations any time soon.

I went home to my picture-perfect pink room in my picture-perfect suburban utopia. “Good night, Farrah,” I said to the Charlie’s Angel icon. After I turned the light out, Farrah’s bathing suit looked red, like blood, instead of orange, in the dark. It looked like red paint was dripping off her poster, like blood. That Alfred Hitchcock movie had gotten to me, after all.

The next morning, when I woke, my mind told me that I was fifty. But I felt twenty-five. Twenty-five pounds overweight, that is. My field trip was over. I’d briefly traded one fun life change for another.

Next time I time travel I’d better wake up in an epic hotel on a college beach in Miami, in my early twenties, carrying a bottle of Korbel champagne in one hand and waving my college degree in the other.

But here I am. Fifty. Deal with it. Learn from it. Celebrate it. Just don’t do anything stupid, like wear a bikini to the beach.

I stretched, threw open the curtains, saw a glorious Tequila Sunrise, dressed appropriately, hopped in my trusty Toyota, and headed out. Look out world. Today is Saturday and I’m about to get this party started.