CH CH CH CHANGES

    

It was the middle of January.  The Christmas tree was still up.  Under the tree sat an empty box.  On Christmas morning it held the greatest Christmas gift that Santa ever left me;  a snowmobile suit.  I didn’t have a snowmobile.  I didn’t want one either.  I did not have not even the slightest desire to ride a snowmobile.  I just wanted the suit.  It was not a stylish snowmobile suit, as far as snowmobile suits go, but it was guaranteed to be the warmest snowmobile suit ever made.

     So I sat on the sofa, in the living room, watching TV at 11pm, in my snowmobile suit.  I was putting new batteries in my electric socks when the commercial came on.  It was a prophylactic company advertising their new vibrator.  Without warning, my old age cold cocked me.  In the day we called it a sucker punch.  Today cold cocked seems more appropriate, I suppose.  

     Back in the day, Mr. Whipple asked you not to squeeze the Charmin, in the day when you could not call toilet paper “toilet paper” on TV.  Back then, feminine hygiene companies did not vie for premium advertising time slots.  And regularity only meant that “The Brady Bunch” would air at eight on Friday night.  

     Under God was not an optional part of the Pledge of Allegiance.  There were no commercials for dating sites, hook up sites or phone sex sites.  We did have “Love American Style”, though.  That came on with regularity at 10 on Friday night.  Not a Viagra, Levitra, Cialis, or Extenze commercial could be found.  Back then "ED" was only preceded by “Co” or “Op” or “Mr.” or “Special.” 

 Prostates had not been discovered way back then.  No one thought to look for them is my guess.

     On the other hand, there were only about 5 channels on TV.  Cartoons were for kids only.  Hot Lips Houlahan was a whore because she wore red lipstick.  Weed was called pot and was never mentioned on TV unless it was on “Dragnet” and then it was called dope, smack, or maryjane. 

     Archie Bunker was a bigot who said things back then that could never be said on TV today.  Smoking was cool.  Cussing was not.  No one wanted to be called a gangster, especially the gangsters.  We fought our way, tooth and nail, out of that hideous oppression.  Almost.

     I was shoving hand warmers into my boxer briefs when it hit me.  Edith Bunker.  Back then Edith Bunker went through the change of life.  Today, women are still going through the change of life.  But still, no one mentions menopause on television.  No one even calls it the change of life, like Edith did.  That one has remained untouchable.  That one is sacred.  

     Vagisil is ok. Menopause?  Forget about it.  Unless, of course, it is male menopause.  That we can talk about.  There have been a thousand talk shows hosted by women who banter about the cause of male menopause.  It is all folly.  The cause of male menopause has been known by the males who have suffered with it, for years.  

     The cause of male menopause is female menopause.  It is as simple as that.  Men will never say it though.  They know better.  Some men give male menopause a bad name by turning to fast cars and fast women.  Some men just stay out of the house as much as possible. 

     Most men, though, just figure it out.  And they figure it out on their own.  Men cannot talk to other men to get pointers about menopause, male or female.  That is forbidden by menopausal women.  That would result in something worse than living with a menopausal woman.  And even though no one can describe what that may be, that is usually enough.  Menopausal women rule this change of life game.  And that is that.

     My electric socks were heating up quite nicely.  I looked up at the hole in the wall.  It was a nice hole as far as holes in walls go.  I remembered when our thermostat used to cover that hole.  I don’t know what happened to that thermostat, but I do know not to ask.  We don’t have a fireplace, but still, I thought for a second about breaking up the dining room furniture to build a fire in the living room. 

     After a couple of tries, I was finally able to stand up in my snowmobile suit and gather up all of cushions from the sofa.  The sound I made with each step, “shoosh,” gave me a sense of pride somehow.  I “shoosh shooshed” into our bedroom.  I almost tripped over the comforter and bed sheets piled on the floor.  I was able to catch myself with one arm on the curtains that were blowing in the wind from the wide open window, barely able to keep my grip on the sofa cushions with the other arm as I regained my balance. 

     Then I weaved through the maze of assorted fans that were placed around the bedroom, all directed at our bed.  I walked like a duck to keep my “shoosh shooshing” as quiet as I could, feeling for empty water bottles on the floor through my toasty electric socks, and laid down.  The hand warmers in my boxer briefs were pinching a bit.  Oh well.  Like I had done every night since Christmas, I covered myself with the sofa cushions.  I couldn't see the ceiling fan, but I could hear it.  For a second I thought if it went any faster that our bedroom may actually take off. 

     As I lay there, I began thinking again.  Some men deal with this change of life by spending as much time away from home as they can.  Most men deal with this change of life by changing with it.  Change is never easy, but if something is worth changing for, change is the only solution.  So I changed.  I asked for a snowmobile suit for Christmas.

     “Good night baby, I love you,” I whispered.  She made a noise back that was either “I love you too” or “get me a glass of ice water.”  And, as I listened to an animal freezing to death outside, on the coldest night of the winter, through our wide open bedroom window, I lay next to my wife who was covered only by her thinnest nightgown.  I knew that soon I would fall asleep. 

     Or freeze to death.  Either one would be ok. 

     That is all.