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Because life doesn't pause during menopause.

Petrified Menopausal Eggs

Petrified Menopausal Eggs
I might be joking about it, but at the risk of sounding weird, this whole egg thing really bugs me.

What do you call a hen who can no longer lay eggs? Henopause.

Okay, that was bad, sorry.

I might be joking about it, but at the risk of sounding weird, this whole egg thing really bugs me.

Unlike men, who somehow continuously make sperm throughout most of their life, women are unable to make more eggs after the 2 million that they are born with are gone. Now, does that seem fair to you?

Just wait, there’s more. By the time a girl has her first period, she has an average of about 400,000 eggs. Only 400 to 500 mature fully to be released during the menstrual cycle. What happens to the rest? The crazy eggs die off, degenerate, and are reabsorbed into our bodies.

Am I the only one that thinks that sounds gross and a bit disturbing?

By the time we’re nearing menopause, we’re no longer producing enough of the hormones we need in order to release eggs, which doesn’t really matter, because we’re running out of eggs anyways. The eggs get really fragile and fall apart easily so any eggs that are left are unusable.

In other words, we have bad eggs.

Cut to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. We all grew up on that movie, right? I was an impressionable 11 years old when that film came out. Okay, visualize Veruca’s final scene in the Golden Egg Room, where she wants her father to buy her one of Wonka’s golden egg-laying geese. After Wonka naturally refuses her father’s offer, Veruca goes on a tirade by breaking into song, “I Want it Now,” trashing the room, and disturbing the Oompa Loompas’ work. Although Veruca deserved it, I still cringe when she climbs onto an Eggdicator and is promptly dropped down into the furnace holding room after being rejected as a “bad egg” by the machine. Her father, too, is deemed a “bad egg” after falling into the chute in an attempt to rescue her.

That’s what I think of when I think of bad eggs.

Or how about the quote by C.S. Lewis: “No clever arrangement of bad eggs ever made a good omelet.”

At menopause we might have a few thousand or so of those bad eggs – stragglers like the people who hang out long after the party is over. What happens to them? Just like the other unused eggs, these bad eggs are absorbed into our bodies.

Yuck! That idea almost freaks me out as bad as the possibility of a shrinking hoo-hoo. (In case you missed reading my article, Going Labido Loco, to my horror, I discovered that during menopause, our vaginas can actually become shorter and narrower. We’re lucky that our lady bits don’t just up and disappear, my friends.)

What happens to our ovaries ain’t pretty either. Prepare yourself. Our ovaries shrink and atrophy – oh, how I hate that word that means waste away. How lovely. Or as Auntie Mame (one of my favorite funny movies) would say, “How vivid.”

All this just isn’t very flattering.

The good news?

Once our eggs are all gone, at least we don’t have to reabsorb bad eggs into our bodies anymore.

The more I think about it, the more I like that. After menopause, we’re done with those disgusting bad eggs. That just might be cause for a celebration. I feel better now. So to quote Auntie Mame again: “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death! So, live! Live! LIVE!”

Eggs or no eggs, we can still do that! Heck yes.

Baby boomers who want to learn more about finding their bliss, can visit Julie’s blog.    

About Julie Gorges

Julie Gorges enjoys writing as a creative way to express her feelings, share her warped sense of humor, bare her soul, and hopefully inspire and educate her readers on important subjects like menopause mania. She's the author of three books, has had hundreds of articles published in magazines and newspapers, and won three journalism awards while working as a newspaper reporter. You can enjoy Julie's own blog at


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