How do you make a hormone?
24/10/11 10:27![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darkemeraldsHormones. Can't live without 'em, but look at this: getting 'em back reawakens the bitch within.
My good pal Gayle, who is nine years my senior and has been a kind of trailblazer of aging ever since we were in college together, reporting back to me what I might expect on the road ahead and avidly researching the latest developments in staving it off, had one word for me the other day when I reported my weird brain-fog condition to her: Bioidenticals.
Gayle says that bioidentical hormone replacement therapy has given her back her mental acuity, her short-term memory, and her sense of being present in the moment--everything that I suddenly felt I was missing last week. Her Jar of Youth has become her number one desert island item, for the regular procurement of which she would sacrifice even her internet connection (though thank goodness that's not necessary since this isn't an expensive prescription drug).
So on her advice I made an appointment with a naturopath, and in the meantime started using an over-the-counter (well, over-the-internet) cream containing some standardized blend of progesterone and adrenal support targeted generally to women in my age category.
And holy bitchcakes, Batman! Three things happened within 24 hours: almost complete relief from hot flashes (OMG if you don't have them, you can't know how much this means), a marked return of mental focus and acuity, and...
...me becoming a terrible bitch again.
Okay, I exaggerate. But my tolerance for stupid has just about bottomed out. I'm annoyed and irritated. I spoke sharply to my supervisor, who is emphatically not stupid, and completely failed to get my meaning across to her, so that we had one of those parallel-track conversations that drive me fucking up the wall.
But here's the thing: I could tell exactly what was wrong. It took me seconds, rather than days, to figure out where the communication failed, why I was so irritated, and what I ought to say to her next (after, you know, apologizing).
This evidence that I really was a smart bitch when I was younger is strangely exhilarating. Now to attack the problem of retaining the smartness from youth-hormones and the tranquility and wisdom of age.
I think I'll call it Project Crystalline Pool. Heh. Or not.
My good pal Gayle, who is nine years my senior and has been a kind of trailblazer of aging ever since we were in college together, reporting back to me what I might expect on the road ahead and avidly researching the latest developments in staving it off, had one word for me the other day when I reported my weird brain-fog condition to her: Bioidenticals.
Gayle says that bioidentical hormone replacement therapy has given her back her mental acuity, her short-term memory, and her sense of being present in the moment--everything that I suddenly felt I was missing last week. Her Jar of Youth has become her number one desert island item, for the regular procurement of which she would sacrifice even her internet connection (though thank goodness that's not necessary since this isn't an expensive prescription drug).
So on her advice I made an appointment with a naturopath, and in the meantime started using an over-the-counter (well, over-the-internet) cream containing some standardized blend of progesterone and adrenal support targeted generally to women in my age category.
And holy bitchcakes, Batman! Three things happened within 24 hours: almost complete relief from hot flashes (OMG if you don't have them, you can't know how much this means), a marked return of mental focus and acuity, and...
...me becoming a terrible bitch again.
Okay, I exaggerate. But my tolerance for stupid has just about bottomed out. I'm annoyed and irritated. I spoke sharply to my supervisor, who is emphatically not stupid, and completely failed to get my meaning across to her, so that we had one of those parallel-track conversations that drive me fucking up the wall.
But here's the thing: I could tell exactly what was wrong. It took me seconds, rather than days, to figure out where the communication failed, why I was so irritated, and what I ought to say to her next (after, you know, apologizing).
This evidence that I really was a smart bitch when I was younger is strangely exhilarating. Now to attack the problem of retaining the smartness from youth-hormones and the tranquility and wisdom of age.
I think I'll call it Project Crystalline Pool. Heh. Or not.
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