I thought about gardening today and the theory I have heard that the sun, the dirt, and growing things, are supposed to be a healthy non-pharmaceutical alternative for hormone replacement for post-menopausal women. So for those who prefer a natural fix, isn’t that a good conviction to contemplate?
So I go to the garden and contemplate that thought as I crawl about on hands and knees yanking out weeds and putting them in a pail. Doing the healthy thing.
But out here in my garden, my conviction that a magical interchange of feeble weariness vs. youthful estrogen is happening, begins to weaken as the dirt presses into my knees and grinds its way into my shoes and under my fingernails. As flies nip at my neck and the sun beats down on my head. As rivers of toily-sweat drip salt-water into my eyes. And as cramp-spasms form painful knots in my ankles, back, and knees.
Now despite the warnings of possible side-effects, my friend told me she takes estrogen-replacement medication (in pill form) to preserve a quality of life that is very necessary. You know, stuff like energy, ambition, and bones insisting that they have the strength to run, to jump, to dance, and chronically insisting that is what they want and plan to do.
As for me, I hate taking pills. I hate an artificial fix. So I remain in my garden: absorbing hormone-replacement in a natural way.
But eventually I am finished and when I dump my pail of weeds and look up, there is Hub taking his ease in a lawn-chair on the deck.
“What’s with you?” I ask, biting my lip and stifling my annoyance. “Are you unaware how much garden work needs doing?”
“Not at all,” Hub replies. “I told you, when we were planting them, that was too many potatoes. So while you were weeding the rest of the garden, I hoed my two rows, and I am done! YOUR six rows still need hilling.”
Oh, really? Well, I’ll do them alright. How opportune for me to have so many more hours to sap up a grand excess of hormone-replacement. Then we’ll see…
He might be grinning now, but man, is he going to be sorry, when I’m finished – and my excess estrogen-replacement fervor of potency and carnality kicks in.
He’ll be running fast as he can – to the garden – to hill the remaining potatoes.