I don’t have air
conditioning, so I am writing this from the perspective of someone living
within a hot flash. My belly has ballooned to the level of Congratulations-when-are-you-due? (This is my least favorite
symptom. I would gladly spend the day crying instead of walking around looking like
I’m packing a baby kangaroo.) But I am goddess, goddammit, so I heaved my fupa*
into a loose-fitting skirt and drove to the air-conditioned grocery store where
I treated myself to pre-cut watermelon and other prepared foods so that I didn’t
have do anything today but tell you how much you should consider acupuncture.
I already
have a little crush my acupuncturist. I crush easily, especially on people who
know more than I do about something I care about, in this case, Chinese medicine.
My practitioner greeted me warmly but with the presence of someone who reserves
a part of himself to listen closely and not say everything right away. I couldn’t
guess his age because his small frame seemed youthful, but his black hair was
sprinkled through with enough gray to suggest middle-age. He seemed to observe
my eyes when I spoke, which unnerved me because I do not feel seen or listened
to often. I will refer to him henceforth as The Magic Man.
Every acupuncturist is different. Some will hand you a questionnaire for
you to detail your dietary habits and how frequently you poop, which intimidates
me. I’m prone to exaggerating my intake of kale. I fret, waiting for someone to ask How often do
you eat popcorn for dinner? The Magic Man did ask me about my diet, but
it was a conversation as opposed to a written exam I might fail. I even
admitted I eat potato chips, which made him laugh and put me at ease because the
reality is that I do not have a terrible diet. I do exercise. I meditate and
receive massage regularly. The Magic Man nodded as he considered this and told
me he wanted to start with some head and neck work. So, I slid onto the table
with as much slug-like grace as I could and let him begin.
I am a former
massage therapist, so it means something when I tell you that I would describe
his light and deliberate touch all over my head and neck as transformative. By
the time he inserted the needles, I wasn’t even trying to open my eyes. Mostly,
I didn’t feel them, and never did it hurt. What I did feel (as I always do with
acupuncture) was electricity—changing its course and causing a couple of my internal
organs to pulse, almost like a little kick. I lost track of time, and when he
said I could sit up, I had to wipe my eyes because they were tearing, though I
didn’t feel sad.
The Magic Man told
me that he thought I could get by with coming every other week as opposed to
weekly, which validated my sense that my self-care routines do sustain me. But
like you, I’m balancing conflicting feelings and bodily changes, including my ovaries
turning to dust. Like puffball mushrooms that cough out brown clouds when you
step on them.
Here’s an article
about incorporating acupuncture into your life during perimenopause if you’d like more information.
Ask around if you
are interested in finding an acupuncturist. The Magic Man was referred to me by
my massage therapist. My co-pay is only fifteen dollars thanks to my health
insurance’s complementary medicine package. Find out what your options are. I’ll
keep you posted about the changes I observe as I continue getting the needle.
In the meantime, enjoy this video in honor of two maidens from my youth.
*Fupa – def. Fat
upper pussy area; example: Girl, her perimenopause
gave her a fupa like a fanny pack full of chicken fat. Generally, not used
as a verb.
Note: Don’t come
for me; I am not the inventor of this expression, merely an occasional user of
it.
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