One week ago, I was discussing paternity with one of my pals and a problem with periods was proposed. I’m not talking about periods as they pertain to punctuation, but periods as they pertain to the periodic proliferation of the uterine wall and its bloody fallout. In the not too distant future, I will become a father. Given my age, if that child is a girl then approximately fourteen years later she will be in the throes of puberty while my wife is in the throes of menopause. These throes will ultimately lead to the throwing of many objects within our household and I don’t want to be around in case something flies my direction. You might see this as selfish, but I see this as self sacrificing. By removing myself from the situation, I will no longer be forced to pick sides and can be the objective silent partner my wife and child truly deserve.
“Can you believe our child said that!”
No, because I was never there!
In order to ensure this, I will need to remove myself from the outside world (ie my house) and trek up to the furthest reaches of society where cell phones and text messaging can surely not survive and no uterus can find me. Here, I can become one with nature and my inner man as I survive off the wild and wait out the womanly woes.
With zero survival training and no sustainable environment to reasonably support me, It’s not likely I will survive, but better death than divorce. At least I will have my trusty type writer (computers have internet and you can never be too safe) to explain to my wife and child the reason for my disappearance and my future intentions. With this type writer I will write my final words, a menopausal manifesto surviving long after the creatures of the wild have picked away at the last remnants of my carcass.
Future Menopausal Manifesto (rough draft)
To Daddy’s Little Girl:
Dear daddy’s little girl,
Know that daddy loves you very much and forgives you for cursing the very ground he walks on after not allowing you to go on any more dates with Spider, apply named for the tattoo on his face. Trust me, one day when you are gainfully employed and not pregnant, you will thank me. Daddy also knows you were possessed by the monthly monster of menstruation consuming your very life essence and propelling you towards bad decisions like Spider. This monster will continue its monthly consumption of your soul and uterus for the next thirty or forty years, so be aware, and plan accordingly.
Dearest baby girl, coyotes are now circling the last flickers of precious heat and light emanating from the camp fire I created six hours ago and buzzards are circling overhead, preparing to take advantage of my malnourished, nature enfeebled frame. Remember honey, industrialization was created because man realized nature was a cruel and heartless bitch.
As the last flashes of heat spit from the wall of flame protecting me from these cruelties of nature die out, like the last viable ovum spit from your mother’s uterine wall, know that daddy loves you. These fading flashes of heat and light also remind me of the flashes of joy and deepest love encompassing all of my memory of you and your mother which will never fade.
To My Dearest Wife:
Know that I love you above all, but am not above leaving you momentarily in the interests of saving myself from the hormonal demon dribbling from your dying womb. For this, I am sorry. I forgive you for throwing that piece of glass at me in retaliation of my deflection of a separate piece of glass thrown at our daughter. I didn’t mean to take sides.
Know that I leave because I love. When you threatened to castrate me and murder our only child I knew you also threatened out of love and that I would be safer within the isolated confines of mother natures womb as yours was slowly withering away. I will always forgive you, because I will always love you.
I love you even when hormones spiral you into an uncontrollably violent rage as your nose crinkles into an adorable snarl and sweat slides across your milky, hot flashed skin, glistening and twinkling in the moonlight. Baby, know that you put the hot in hot flash.
If science proves kinder than programs like When Animals Attack would suggest then there will be a chance I can see you and our sweet little girl again. We can grow old together and laugh about that time long ago when you threatened to castrate me and I disappeared into the deepest recesses of the unforgiving Alaskan Yukon. Provided bears prove more teddy than terrifying, I fully intend on returning when your transformation is complete and am eager to reunite with the tender warmth of your touch as we watch our daughter grow old and mature from the protection of our retirement home, located far enough away to ensure our survival when she reaches the twilight of her womanhood.
Your dear husband.
Tomorrow we find out the sex of our child and you can find out whether or not I will actually be writing this manifesto. So stay tuned!