The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
Nothing shall I want, Lord. Any minor inconveniences caused by The Change pale in comparison to the freedom I feel at this time in my life. Wait, maybe there is one thing. If it’s not too much trouble, I shall want my pre-menopausal body back. A discernible waistline, breasts that reside at their previous latitude rather than migrating toward the equator, and skin that doesn’t look like crepe-paper streamers from Aunt Ethel’s ninetieth birthday party. And, please, Lord, enough with the sweating. Is that asking too much? You’re omnipotent and all, so I’m just throwing a couple things out there because you asked. You didn’t ask? I thought you asked.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
I would love to lie down. Menopause has wreaked havoc with my sleep. A green pasture sounds lovely as long as there’s a brisk breeze. Can there be a brisk breeze? Also, a silky pillowcase, miscellaneous sheets and blankets, and definitely an electric fan overhead on high speed. I’m down to about a half-a-degree temperature range for comfort, depending on humidity, clothing, and general level of surrounding human nuisance. Sometimes I spontaneously combust. Can you make sure no one else uses the pasture while I’m there? Especially anyone who snores, complains the fan makes it “so cold you could hang meat in here,” or asks whether I’m trying to “freeze him to death.” (If I were trying to kill him, and I’m not saying I am, I think I could come up with a better weapon than a ceiling fan.) Make sure the waters are still, too, because if they’re rushing, I’ll have to pee all the time or risk leaking whenever I laugh, cough, or sneeze. And cool waters only. I pack my own heat so ixnay on the sauna.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yes, Lord, you restoreth my soul. It’s all those other people who sucketh the life right out of me. People who play with the thermostat, borrow my little fan without returning it, and suggest the dryer did not shrink my clothes. Smite them. I’ll try to keep up when you leadeth, Lord, but the righteousness path sounds like a haul when it’s, like, ninety-eight degrees in the shade, and I’m so bloated my shorts won’t button.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Wait, God, you didn’t mention we were walking to Death Valley. What happened to that breezy green pasture? Instead of a rod and staff, how about a walk-in freezer I can stroll into now and then?
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
OK, now we’re getting somewhere. Are you making dinner or just setting the table? Either way, keep the oil and overflowing cups off the good tablecloth, please. Unless you’re talking about some other overflowing cups, in which case mine are not so much overflowing as they are hanging low. Where are we on that latitude thing?
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
The real question is whether the hot flashes and insomnia shall follow me all the days of my life. Is the house of the Lord air-conditioned?