I'm in trouble with one of my sons again. That is, I think I am, though I do tend to be slightly paranoid about his feelings for me since we don't get to see each other very often.
And probably rightly so--the being in trouble, I mean. I used a rather fun, risque photo of myself to illustrate a point on one of the episodes of this show, and apparently that made my 30-year-old son feel icky, especially after some of his friends, who are also my friends on Facebook, apparently razzed him about it. Now, my son is thirty years old--I'm not talking about a child here.
I didn't think the photo was even close to pornographic, but I can understand his discomfort. But nowadays body parts are displayed all over the Web and in text messages ad nauseum, so I don't think my playful photo--uploaded simply to make a rhetorical point, and it took me a year to get the guts to do it, but I made the sacrifice for my art--is really that scandalous. One must be edgy these days, mustn't one?
After all, said squeamish son DID do the lead singing and guitar playing in a punk band all night in one of the bars in the town where I live wearing nothing but a DIAPER, so it's not as if he leads a life of modesty!
Anyway, hopefully, I'm imagining all that. I love my kids dearly and don't like any hint of being on the outs with either of them.
Yet I still feel the need to write about being a woman--a relatively young and sexually active (though less and less so of both)--woman who is coming (no pun intended) to grips with the effects of chronic disease on her sex life.
The effect, in short, is numbing--a metaphorical cold shower on the hormones and neurotransmitters responsible for sexual arousal and pleasure. This, at least, appears to be the culprit in my case, having recently been diagnosed by my neurologist with progressive (a nice way of saying "degenerative") neuromuscular disease.
My faithful following (of statistical vampire sites, at least) knows that I've been convinced for some time that my hypothalamus is going wacko.
Yes, sports fans, my HYPOTHALAMUS, of all things, is failing me.
I've been convinced of this for some time, even before my neurologist diagnosed me with this neuromuscular disease of unknown etiology, still to be determined.
My money is on myotonic dystrophy based on a reasoned review of my medical history and the MD disease profile. Not tangential is recent proof that myotonic dystrophy's effects are caused by imbalances in, you guessed it, that cute little hypothalamus.
It's time for all of us to become friends with our hypothalamuses! Now, there's a great word. Or should it be "hypothalami"?
So, what is a hypothalamus anyway?
Well, you have one, or you wouldn't be reading this right now. Or doing anything else. Like breathing, for instance.
And probably rightly so--the being in trouble, I mean. I used a rather fun, risque photo of myself to illustrate a point on one of the episodes of this show, and apparently that made my 30-year-old son feel icky, especially after some of his friends, who are also my friends on Facebook, apparently razzed him about it. Now, my son is thirty years old--I'm not talking about a child here.
I didn't think the photo was even close to pornographic, but I can understand his discomfort. But nowadays body parts are displayed all over the Web and in text messages ad nauseum, so I don't think my playful photo--uploaded simply to make a rhetorical point, and it took me a year to get the guts to do it, but I made the sacrifice for my art--is really that scandalous. One must be edgy these days, mustn't one?
After all, said squeamish son DID do the lead singing and guitar playing in a punk band all night in one of the bars in the town where I live wearing nothing but a DIAPER, so it's not as if he leads a life of modesty!
Anyway, hopefully, I'm imagining all that. I love my kids dearly and don't like any hint of being on the outs with either of them.
Yet I still feel the need to write about being a woman--a relatively young and sexually active (though less and less so of both)--woman who is coming (no pun intended) to grips with the effects of chronic disease on her sex life.
The effect, in short, is numbing--a metaphorical cold shower on the hormones and neurotransmitters responsible for sexual arousal and pleasure. This, at least, appears to be the culprit in my case, having recently been diagnosed by my neurologist with progressive (a nice way of saying "degenerative") neuromuscular disease.
My faithful following (of statistical vampire sites, at least) knows that I've been convinced for some time that my hypothalamus is going wacko.
Yes, sports fans, my HYPOTHALAMUS, of all things, is failing me.
I've been convinced of this for some time, even before my neurologist diagnosed me with this neuromuscular disease of unknown etiology, still to be determined.
My money is on myotonic dystrophy based on a reasoned review of my medical history and the MD disease profile. Not tangential is recent proof that myotonic dystrophy's effects are caused by imbalances in, you guessed it, that cute little hypothalamus.
It's time for all of us to become friends with our hypothalamuses! Now, there's a great word. Or should it be "hypothalami"?
So, what is a hypothalamus anyway?
Well, you have one, or you wouldn't be reading this right now. Or doing anything else. Like breathing, for instance.
