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Fork! I’m Fifty! Wine, Women and Song.

The best part about menopause … Ummm … There is no best part! Everything about it is forked! Okay, let me re-phrase that … It is great we are able to talk about menopause and peri-menopause more openly now. (How’s that? Better? Yes, thank you. You’re welcome. Fork off. Oh, okay.) 

Although, I would be very surprised if the preceding generation of women didn’t compare notes over cups of tea or an Aperol Spritz or two. (Too far back. What? You’ve gone too far back! Where? Aperol Spritz dates back to the 20s not the 60s. Right. And I care because? Oh, okay.) Scrap that last sentence … Our mums definitely would have had conversations about the ‘change of life’ over Vodka Martinis or Harvey Wallbangers as they were approaching their fifties. (Better? Cheers.)

We are generally given the ‘birds and bees’ talk at around eleven or twelve – possibly earlier for some, possibly later for others, possibly not at all for some and possibly it was far too traumatic for others. For me, it was an uncomfortable chat around a lounge chair with my mum and two sisters. I had no idea what the hell mum was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a tomboy. Get back to me when the boob fairy has given me a couple of well-formed boozies and the hair fairy has planted a small, well-formed pelt to cover my bits.

If mum mentioned anything about menopause or peri-menopause prior to me experiencing some of the effects, I have no memory of it (typical) and would have had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a kid with well … nothing who grew up to own weird fried eggs resembling boozies. Ignorance was my preferred state of bliss. And really, what difference would it have made?

I was given the ‘birds and bees’ chat: I fell pregnant at twenty. Never a good student as the adventures, daydreams and stories I imagined in my head were always so much more entertaining. Much more so than having to learn something only to spit it back out almost instantly. (Tempted to say something about semen here but will restrain myself.)

Even if I had been warned of what was to come (see what I did there … that was an unintended pun … kind of proud of that one … I’d pat myself on the back if I wasn’t so scared of the bitch-slapping back fat), I would not have paid one bit of attention because I wasn’t experiencing it, there was nothing to relate it to.

Now, it is relatable. Now, I have conversations about it with my mum. Actually, it’s more me whinging, bitching and moaning and mum nodding. ‘I suppose I was lucky to have had a full hysterectomy in my thirties,’ she says, ‘I didn’t go through menopause,’ she tells me, yet again, for the umpteenth time, pushing the knife in further, as though saying ‘nah, nah, nar nar nah, that’s what you get for not listening to your mother, nah nah, nar nar nah!’ Well, my kids are being told about this major event in a woman’s life. Over and over again, until they have their climacteric radars at the ready.

If it wasn’t for the wonderful women around me, I would have been under the incorrect assumption that I was special and the only woman in the world to be going through this thing called peri-menopause/menopause. (Pausing for a moment to consider why this thing is called ‘men’ opause? What have men got to do with menopause? Answer: from the Greek word ‘men’ (month) and ‘pausis’ (halt). Common sense really. Though how common is common sense? Really?)

Back to my female friends of a similar age or affliction … Being able to talk, compare, whinge and bitch about all that is happening, was happening and is not happening any more is a bloody marvel. No pun intended. Particularly, as these sessions usually take place with some lovely wine or yummy gin.

Another favourite thing sacrificed: wine. It now hates me, with demon-spewing passion. I haven’t told the girls yet, feigning a preference for gin, but the truth will have to come out eventually. Even one teeny, tiny, little sip of wine and I end up sleeping in a puddle of my own sweat, waking up to my heart racing faster than Usain Bolt and a headache that would down a bull elephant.

Red wine is my arch nemesis now. Waaahhhhh!!! It was my favourite thing. With cheese and bread. More specifically: Brie and baguettes. Now, it’s: have some red wine at your peril, Jones. All hell breaks loose: literally. Diarrhoea for days and spewing up everything that has ever been swallowed by me … throughout my entire life … since my birth … since gestation. I have tested the theory – twice. It is a fact. Or does it have to be tested three times with the same outcome before a theory is accepted as fact? I think twice is sufficient. I am stupid, not demented.

Thank the heavens for gin! I have decided to become a gin wanker. I will test every brand of gin, list the botanicals of each together with the condiment/s best suited to each. My knowledge of gin will astound my peers, impress my family and possibly lead to my being recognised as a world-renowned aficionado of juniper juice. When I stop crying that is.

Unfortunately, all alcohol is fast becoming recognised as the cause of my night sweats, heart races and headaches, plus I really do not feel well the next day. Even from swallowing a teensy, tiny bit of Listerine. Doomed! Doomed! I am doomed! What is a fifty-something year old woman supposed to live for if she can’t drink alcohol? (Hubby nudges me. Oh, alright then.)

Giving the above more contemplation than it deserves, I put the ‘Best of the 80s’ CD on the stereo, whip out the vacuum cleaner and sing along with UB40 at the top of my lungs: ‘Red, red why iiiinnnnnneeeeee…’
(Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

Who knew? Well, hundreds … no, thousands … quite possibly millions of women knew when they experienced it first hand. And, quite possibly, they may have warned the next generation. Or, they were nasty bitches who thought ‘they have youth, they can fork off,’ and kept this little nugget all to themselves.

For some completely forked reason, some/most/almost all women when they reach peri-menopause or menopause, the molecular structure of their hair changes (except for you; female who’s name starts with the letter ‘S’ and who shall remain nameless: bitch). Some blame hormones, some blame diet, some blame hormones and diet, some blame the hormones in the foods in the diet – whatever the reason is: it is forked!

When your hair was your crowning glory (oh yeah, that pun was intended), like mine most definitely was, losing what feels like handfuls of it and/or the losing the thickness of it and/or losing the length of it, is just a tiny bit hard to come to forking terms with. The penny drops … ah, so that is why older women mostly have short hairstyles. Dur!

I knew something was happening with my hair. Initially I thought it was because I had changed shampoo and conditioner brands. My hair started to feel coarse. Perhaps it was my hands, I told myself, after working in the garden – placated for a few more days. After washing my hair, my hands would be covered in long threads of brown locks, say nothing about the shower drain. Maybe I was turning into a werewolf and, so was the drain?

And then, I saw a photo of myself … taken as I was walking … along the beach … on a slightly breezy day … on Facebook. What the fork? Where is my hairline? Where did it go? I could have sworn it used to start a centimetre or two further forward on my forehead. It’s gone out with the tide! Receded back onto my skull almost in line with … my ears! Waaahhhh! Come back! Come back! Swim back to mummy. Forking Facebook!

That was the day I decide to rebel against nature, take matters into my own hands, take charge, make a stand, show my hair who was boss. I went to the hairdresser and snip, boom, bang … one sexy new short hairstyle. Oh yeah! Take that follicles! 

I had started a war. Next morning after waking with seriously bad bed head, I washed my hair. I may as well have stuck my hand in a power point whilst having a bath with my favourite fan heater. Gone were the sleek, shiny tresses of yesterday, sitting perfectly in their trendy, geometric, groovy, gelled coif. During the night, some bad bed head hair fairies had been to visit. In place of luscious locks were wire, feathers and cobweb strands; the sticky ones. What the fork? Seriously?

Right! I’ll fix your wagon. Shoving a baseball cap on my head, I go to the supermarket, purchase a semi-permanent hair colour in approximately my natural hair colour (or what it used to be before the greys started appearing at my temples), go home, straight into the bathroom, open packets, bottles, gloves, put this lotion into that bottle with that lotion, shake shake shake, squirt rub squirt rub, rinse, condition, towel dry, et voila! 

Hmmm … well that didn’t have the desired effect of restoring the wayward Medusa-esque frizz back to the store bought cool do. Though it did hide the greys for another month. Right! Out came the hair dryer and the newly purchased round styling brush and the newly purchased styling gel. I should have purchased a new me while I was at it. One who has the stamina, strength and gives a flying toss about spending an hour doing their hair.

After five minutes of blowing, brushing and gelling I looked like a band member from Flock of Seagulls – not pretty, not mentally healthy, and not legal (no matter how hard Trump tries to make it so). Plus my arms were so sore from wrangling the hair dryer, the hair brush and the back fat. Ah well, I surrender. Have it your way. Be rebels. You win. Take on the chore of trying to give me the shits every morning.

I had made the fatal error of forgetting that I am no J-Lo or Beyonce; I do not have an entourage at home to maintain my new do. Together with the fact that I have: no interest; no stamina; no strength and having been witness to my back fat being wind blown around my body was enough to make one vomit; though the thought of bits of pea and carrot becoming trapped in fat wrinkles was enough then to stop that urge. Gag-arama! I do have a baseball cap though, and time. Time to grow the high maintenance do out and start again.

A couple of years later, my sun bleached long brown hair is almost at my waist. But it is so fine and wispy, plus I have my new Mickey Mouse meets Dracula hairline. I miss my thick, wavy mane. I think, ‘what if I layer it, that should thicken it up a bit?’ So off she goes, layers her hair, gives herself a fringe. Seriously, who let her have the scissors? Who? What stupid peri-menopausal idiot decides it is a good idea to give herself a haircut and a fringe?

Too late now! There is no turning back. Fork! What have I done? My hair is uncontrollable and a frizzy, wiry mess. Back to the hairdresser, who takes it upon herself to deal out a terrible nanna bob with an even worse fringe. I looked like the Three Stooges had attacked my head. The hairdresser looked at me as if to say ‘this is what you get when you cut your own hair.’ Well, that backfired smarty-farty because if you’re going to make me look like that, I am not coming back!

Ah fork! Back to square one. It is around this time that I have an epiphany. No more high maintenance hair. No more hair dye. No more trying to hide the fact that I am getting older. Suck it up and be a big girl. Find one good trustworthy hairdresser. Have a good, easy to manage haircut and stick with it. Have regular trims to keep the style.

Hubby came to the rescue (the training is working again): ‘Go short,’ he advised. ‘You can carry off a really short hairstyle.’ He picked the style and I found the hairdresser, and between the two of us … um, three of us … we have found a way to stop me from bitching, whingeing and complaining incessantly about my hair. Hubby is one smart cookie; that or he really cannot stand me bitching, whingeing and complaining. Boy, is he in for a surprise! (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Hail Damage, Cottage Cheese and Bags of Potatoes.

Fifteen! ‘She was only fifteen years old.’ When cellulite came a-knockin’. I had found a dimple on the outside of my upper, right thigh. I asked my mum, ‘what is this dimple mum’, to which she replied, ‘it’s cellulite. A little bag of trapped fat.’ Well, that’s revolting … and forked. Fifteen! I was fit, small and victim to bags of trapped fat.

Nothing further to report until going to the beach in my late twenties. There I was; a young, fit mother (albeit with shit tits), in shorts and a top – it was Hobart, where only the very young, the very old, the very stupid and dogs go in the water – and some tosser says ‘you’re alright apart from the cellulite on your legs’. What the forkitty fork? Seriously dude? Have you looked in a mirror? Ever?

That night, of course, I checked myself out. Low and behold, the tops of my legs had been replaced by cottage cheese! A very small container of cottage cheese, but cottage cheese none-the-less. There is a saying ‘you are what you eat’ … my friends … it is true. My food of choice when pregnant: cottage cheese. With pineapple. So I had pineapples for boobs and cottage cheese for thighs. Fantastic! We won’t touch on my love of yoghurt and how that manifests itself later in my life.

There is a distinct difference between the cute cottage cheese cellulite I had in my late twenties and the sacks of spuds that now inhabit my bum, tum, legs and arms. Firstly, I don’t eat dairy anymore (well, it is selective dairy consumption – who can say no to brie?), and now have a full-blown love affair with any vegetable containing the word potato. Seriously, we are at it at least twice a day. Secondly, this stuff is everywhere. I look like I’ve been left outside on a rotisserie during the most ferocious hailstorm of the century. I have hail damage! If I were a car, I’d be written off.

Really, I’m not surprised. Being inactive for eighteen months will do that to a woman, particularly an older woman. Though in combination with the fat and wobbly bits I’m starting to think this may be a lost cause. I could drive myself insane trying to get rid of the cellulite and the fat: plus there’s the balding hedgehog to deal with. And brie.

Perhaps all I need to do is eat smooth, un-lumpy, toned food: like Tom Hanks’ Cast Away character did – fish and coconut. Hmmm … on one hand I could have a trim, toned, svelte, old body which hubby loves regardless of what I think of it and how I look (at least that’s what he says to shut me up – which is fair, he is well trained); and on the other hand I could have a love of yummy food, cooking and eating out with friends and not look in mirrors or down when naked.

It’s a tough decision – hail damage, cottage cheese and bags of potatoes or fish and coconut? Really the question should be: Why the fork do women get all these forked things happening to them? If anyone says anything about forking apples and gardens and a bloke named Adam, they will be bitch-slapped by my back fat! Oh yeah, it will reach! Or should the question be: Why do women care? Hmm …

I remember seeing my great aunt at the beach in her bathers playing with her grand-son and thinking I hope I’m like her when I get old: not care about the saggy boobs, padded tummy and hips, flappy arms, dimples everywhere including knees. But I am not: I am vain. I should be setting an example for the younger generation of women coming up through the ranks. Being completely confident with my cottage cheese carnage. Nah, fork that. They have their own mothers, grandmothers, aunts and friends to example the shite out of owning fat bags.

I want to be a groovy granny sans cellulite, with the unconditional love of my grandchildren. Whoops … with the unconditional love for my grandchildren! Though I won’t be able to smell or see if they have a dirty nappy, and I may smother them with my cellulite covered back fat if I lean forward, so it’s over to grand-dad for that part. Which is only fair.

Do you know what really forks me off about cellulite? That female celebrities have found a way to get rid of or avoid cellulite altogether and have not shared the secret with the rest of us. That is unsisterly, unfeminine, selfish and just plain forked. We end up looking like dried up prunes whilst they strut around in their un-cellulited bodies. Come on ladies! One for all and all for one. I think I just found some cellulite on my earlobe!

Do you know what else pisses me off about cellulite? Guys don’t get it. I may have mentioned this earlier, though I forget, I feel it is necessary to mention it again to make my point clear. Society has it all wrong: women should be paid more money as they have to put up with more shite. (Of course, hubby would argue that men are paid more to compensate for the whinging and nagging of their wives. He would be wrong. And for his trouble: a round-house, back fat bitch slap. Back to training his well-shaped, un-cellulited arse!)

I just sneezed and a tsunami-like mound of dimpled jelly rolled its way down my back, around my hips and through to my stomach: what the fork! (It may be because you’re sitting around writing instead of exercising? Fork off! Oh, okay.) I did exercise this morning; I went for a lovely hour long walk along the dog beach. I met some lovely golden retrievers who would not let me pass without first slobbering kisses all over me and sitting on my feet for a multitude of pats.

It was regenerating being out and about. Breathing in the fresh, salty air. Listening to the waves gently breaking on the shore. The sun dappling on the water, shimmering and glittery. Cellulite softly dimpling and denting with my every step. Fat bits wobbling and rolling like puppies playing under a doona. It is a start. Remember, every journey starts with a small step. (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Shits, Pits, Bits and Tits.

There are so many things that give me the shits nowadays. I was either extremely tolerant or superbly ignorant – I can’t decide which and having to make a decision is giving me the shits. So, I was both. I feel a distinct lack of patience toward those who are not patient – this paradox may be blamed on hormones or peri-menopause or menopause – or to rephrase, I think of it as an intolerance for the over-abundance of pernicious dickheads.

Top of the ‘Knobby Knob Head’ class are the tailgaters who insist on humping your bumper bar with their grill. What is that? You’re listening to Smooth FM, singing along to The Bangles, overtaking a semi-trailer, going five k’s over the speed limit. Living on the edge. When a knobby knob head in a four wheel drive with a shiny bull bar races up behind you, coming closer and closer at speed. 

Watching intermittently in the rearview mirror, you try to concentrate on driving past the double-trailered semi without veering off the steep shoulder as Cowboy Prick Features tries to push your car along whilst intimidating a poor little old lady. Well, a middle class, little old lady. Okay! A middle class, little old woman. Right!! A middle class, little woman. Happy?

It is not my road. It is not your road. The road belongs to everyone. It is to share. Not scare. Knobby Knob Head Prick Features! (Note: the terms ‘dickhead’, ‘knobby knob head’, ‘cowboy prick features’ and ‘knobby knob head prick features’, or any combination of the above, are not gender specific. I use these terms for all genders.)

Secretly, I can understand why someone would want to tailgate me – I do lunges, I do squats, I do a 6k walk most days. It is possibly quite a tidy tail: not that I’ve seen it recently, as one has lost the flexibility to turn that far to view it in a mirror. Yes, delusion is part of aging: I have a fine piece of tush, or would have, if it wasn’t now for its distinct resemblance to an elephant’s behind. So there are no excuses Cowboy knobby prick knob features!

Sharing top of the class honours are the absolute imbeciles who mistake my blank look and speechlessness as interest in whatever excrement is coming out of their mouths when actually I don’t give a flying cow-pat and don’t want to waste forming another wrinkle on such dick-wads. Sufferers of verbal diarrhoea; chug on some Hydralyte. Stat. Oh, but wait. Perhaps they don’t know they have shit vomiting out of their gob. I am just the person to help with some self-awareness. Shut. The. Fork. Up.

Not professing to be the world authority on excellent conversation, I do understand and occasionally practice the fundamentals: engage, talk, listen, respond, listen, engage, talk, listen, respond, listen, interrupt, change the subject and, if you’re not interested in the conversation, whip out your phone and pretend you are: a) responding to an urgent email; b) looking for a specific photo of whom or whatever is boring enough to end all further interaction, or; c) important and walk away to take a call.

Seriously, how can you not know that talking about the same thing over and over again without taking a breath and without taking any notice of the person or persons you are supposedly interacting with is rude, boring, tedious, prosaic, selfish, boring, boring, boring, disinteresting and forked. Worse still is when you finally do stop talking and then you whip out your phone and pretend you are: a) responding to an urgent email; b) looking for a specific photo of whom or whatever is boring enough to end all further interaction, or; c) important and walk away to take a call. What the fork? And that wraps up the ‘shits’ part of this chapter.

Pits, bits and tits are high maintenance, way too high maintenance for this little earth mother wannabe. In my thirties – when I was vain and a working professional – I had laser hair removal done on my pits and bits. Booked in for the five sessions (apparently hair grows in four stages and the fifth session is for luck though more likely profit), I was told by the beautician during my third appointment that she would be on holiday for the next couple of weeks. As things were looking nice and tidy, I was not concerned.

When she returned from holiday, she called to say that she couldn’t make the fourth appointment because she was moving. Hmmm … things are starting to look a little un-kept. Finally, she stopped returning my calls and I have a bikini line that looks like a balding porcupine. Oh yeah. It hadn’t all grown back as I had had three sessions. Therefore I have a quarter of the original hair growth in my pits and on my bits. Still. Yep, once bitten twice shy for this little balding hedgehog. I shave now.

Ah tits: the banes of my existence. I am a small person, in every sense of the word. My many nicknames have included: chipmunk, shrimp, shorty, midget and pain-in-the-arse, which is due to an auto-response disorder from being small; kind of like short man syndrome. So getting my first bra at the same time as my younger sister who, it turned out, actually needed a bigger cup size, did wonders for my boob-esteem. The boob fairy hated me or needed to be sacked for doing such a shit job.

So my little mozzie bites took refuge in the A-cup, size 8 bra where they grew like little mushrooms in the dark to graduate to a B-cup approximately four years later. Not even time-lapse photography would have captured the growth. The big girls, who were owners of substantial mammalian protuberances, were relentless during high school’s grooming and deportment elective when our measurements were taken. Little did I know, and, be careful what you wish for.

Fast forward to being pregnant and wowsers! Overnight (and time lapse photography will support this) I grew a huge pair of breasts. I could hardly stand without toppling forward they were so big. They looked like watermelons on a post; rockmelons on a stick; oranges on a toothpick: they were enormous. I had gone from a small B-cup to a D-cup: from a size 8 across the back to a size 12. It was all fun bags until the milk came in.

Just when you think your skin won’t stretch any further, it does … to a DD-cup. In fear of falling on my face every time I stood up, I had to hold my breasts to walk anywhere. They were oozing over the sides of my hands (which are small), seeking refuge under my armpits, covering my entire torso, preventing me from seeing any part of my body from the chest down. I had one very lucky baby.

When I stopped breast-feeding, my boobs turned traitor, packed up their sustenance and left the premises. What remained were two shrivelled sacks of skin with a striking resemblance to two lightly fried eggs thrown at a wall, the yolks pulling everything down as they slide to the floor. I could roll these puppies up. In fact, I did, how else would they get in the bra? They were accomplished escape artists: no bra could hold them. Houdini tits. To make life much more fun, enjoyable and interesting, the more weight I put on, the lower the twins drooped.

Drum roll please … I had a breast reduction. Ta dah! Best decision I have ever made. Remove the excess skin. Reposition the nipples. Pull every back up on to the chest. Stitch them up. Buy some beautiful, sexy bras. Et voila! I am woman, hear me roar! It may sound vain, but I don’t give a fork. I can wear shoestring straps, strapless clothes, bathers – yes, I could have worn all these things before but I wouldn’t have because my tits were disgusting, and it’s what I think of my body that matters to me – though now I am looking down the barrel of tuckshop arms/chicken wings/wind sock arms so the skimpy clothing days are numbered.

It has been eight years of bliss with my new boobs and I only wish I had done it sooner. And, to date, they remain hair free! Which brings us to the final item on today’s venting list. Da da daaaahhhhhh! Facial hair. What the fork is that about?! One stray hair that serves no purpose but delivers a new level of self awareness if one forgets to pluck that sucker! 

Of little comfort is the fact that my peers are also slaves to the stray facial hair. Mine shoots like a prolific weed. Erupting forth from above my lip, slightly to the right of my philtrum. Within minutes it has sprouted. Unlike the ‘normal’ facial hair, this baby is as erect as randy teenage boy eyeing off an apple pie. It is as hard as a nail, as black as my mood and as long as my little finger! (Slight exaggeration.)

Even though it is plucked with regularity, it insists on taking up root approximately every six weeks: little exhibitionist! With any luck, the little upstart will take lessons from some of it’s eyebrow cousins and lose the will to take root once plucked. Though it may follow the example of other eyebrow hair traitors and turn grey, and long, and curly, and … GAH! I have pubes on my face! (Only when I put my glasses on though.) (Fork! I’m Fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! The Blind Leading the Blind.

If memory serves me correctly, it was a Jeffrey Archer novel. Actually, it could have been a Ken Follett book. No wait. It was Peter Fitzsimons. Was it? Umm … could have been Matthew Reilly? I’ve sacked my memory! Whatever the book was that I was reading, it was so good that I remember every word: not. Obviously. Nothing against the authors: everything against my memory.

Actually, I do remember the storylines for the books of the above authors: a family who own a shipping line build a cathedral whilst exploring Antarctica where they are nearly eaten by polar bears and saved by a scarecrow. Yes? Sorry, I should have said ‘spoiler alert’ or some rubbish.

So, I was reading a book. It was dark, therefore night. It would have been a paperback, as it was ten years ago and before I jumped over to reading only e-books. There would have been a little reading light attached to the book so I could read without disturbing hubby. Reading, reading, happily reading: put bookmark in position, close book, turn off light, go to sleep.

The next night: pick up book, turn on light, open book at bookmarked position, reading … trying to read … rub eyes … the print is blurry … rub eyes … the print is still blurry … what the fork? How am I supposed to go to sleep if I can’t read first? Nothing against the authors: everything about relaxing an over-active brain before attempting sleep. Plus, I have always read at bedtime or was read to. It is a well-formed routine repeated each night for over fifty years, which is more than 18,000 nights of reading, people!

So, of course, I wake hubby up to inform him of the impeding drama. Being a non-reader, he rolls over and continues to focus on perfecting his snoring. Okay … so, I pick up the book, adjust the light, bring the book closer to my eyes and squint. No, that is worse. I move the book away from my eyes. Further, a little further, just a little further and squint. Ah ha! Yes, I can make out the words! Yay! I read for a couple of minutes, put bookmark in position, close book, turn off light, go to sleep.

Next day, I have an optometrist appointment and, lucky me, am the proud owner of my ‘first’ pair of readers. Hang on a second. (Not that you can or would want to. What? Hang on a second. Huh? It is physically impossible to hang on to a second. Oh. I know what you are thinking … it is also physically impossible to hang on to a minute. It’s a saying, so I’m writing it. At your peril. Fork off. Oh, okay.) Just a cotton, picking minute! Did you say ‘first’ pair of readers? How many of these reading glasses will I need?

That night I read comfortably until I turned on my side. The nose piece on the glasses was performing amputation surgery on my nose, the arm on the glasses was stabbing into my head and dislocating my ear, the lenses had shifted and would have been positioned perfectly if my eyes were located on the bridge of my nose and over my left ear: this was not working. I was stuck reading whilst on my back, juggling the book between my hands when one hand tired.

There is a problem with a well-formed routine: it is very hard to change it. Very! Hard! So off to the optometrist the next day for a pair of glasses with soft, bendy arms, lighter lenses, a flexible nose piece and to hand over my first born child. Oh yes, this aging thing is expensive. Ka-ching, ka-ching.

My younger sister uses me as her personal crash test dummy. ‘So, in eighteen months, I’ll need glasses. Sure, I can prepare myself for that. Thanks for the heads-up Sis.’ That’s what I’m here for. Glad I could be of assistance. Where’s my crash test dummy? I want my 20/20 vision back! Wahhhhhh! So, reading by candle light and torch light throughout my early years would have had nothing to do with this, right? Blindingly obvious.

What I have learned is that no matter how hard you try, you’re arms do not grow longer as your eyesight fails. However, using my phone to read I can increase or decrease the font size as necessary, it is backlit, I can adjust the brightness, it is small and convenient, and most books are available as e-books. Whilst I miss the smell and feel of a good book (that sounds a little wrong, but fellow readers will understand immediately), I am grateful for this technology.

I’m on to my tenth – could be eleventh or twelfth – pair of readers now. Each pair a reminder of my failing eyesight. I have a pair of glasses stashed away in each room of the house so relying on an unreliable memory is not needed. I have single lenses, bi-focals, multi-focals, multi-focals with glare protection, multi-focal sunglasses, and still cannot stand the fact that I need to wear them in order to see.

I have a theory: as we age, our eyesight fails so we don’t see what is happening to our bodies. But because we’re so curious, we had to invent mirrors and glasses. And poof! Now we can see what the hell is going on with our bodies as we age whilst we pay for the optometrist and his progeny to travel the world.

When last at the optometrist, he informed me, ‘your eyes are showing very early signs of glaucoma’. Brilliant. Am learning braille. I’ll be able to read my body bumps: no guessing what they will reveal … ‘what the fork!’ (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Fat, Fat and Back Fat.

The day I walked up the stairs and three minutes later my wobbly bits were still wiggling from side to side like a successful panna cotta, was the day I decided to tone up. Fluctuating between being active and impersonating a vegetable, I was back to being active, however healthy veggies are for you.

My relationship with food and exercise is one of those which could be classified as ‘on again / off again’. As a child I was very active, cycling everywhere, walking to and from school, exploring around the neighbourhood, tadpole collecting, tree climbing: all very challenging when one’s legs are as short as mine were … and still are.

I was a good eater of most foods; particularly peanut butter and jam sandwiches on fresh white bread, divine. I did not, and still do not, like to eat kidney, liver, and tripe – perhaps it was mum’s cooking (sorry Mum) or perhaps it was because it’s offal – an unsolved mystery which has been officially closed.

Playing school and club netball as Centre position kept me fit and mum cold on Saturday mornings (sorry Mum). I played netball until I was 16. Then … I stopped to do a school play, became too interested in boys and took up anorexia followed swiftly by bulimia. Now, that says a great deal without me having to type a copious amounts of words. Binging and purging continued until I was 20 and fell pregnant. (Another mystery – how does one ‘fall’ pregnant. ‘I tripped down the stairs and next thing I know … I’m up the duff.’ A ponderous use of words.) Back to having a bun in the oven … Ah yes, the old cliché, good Catholic girl gets knocked up, as it has been for centuries.

Having a child was the best thing I have done … so far, and I am over half way: it could possibly be the best thing I have done … ever! Being responsible for a little human, what they eat, what they do and building the foundations for the person they will grow into is a parent’s purpose. And though I started out with parental training wheels on, I ate better, have a healthy relationship with food and, best of all, produced a lovely human.

I took up dancing in my mid-twenties: chassé’ing, jeté’ing, plié’ing and grooving through to my early thirties, then came squash, Pilates and walking, running, cycling, swimming, training for an Ironman, and a physical, sweaty, outdoor job – the old body complaining so much by now it hardly seemed fair to keep ignoring it. Over the years a couple of kilos had taken up residence predominantly on my legs, bum, hips and boobs: no relationship whatsoever to the amount of wine being consumed or the congratulatory baked goods, of course. This I could handle.

Never having been overweight and now relegated to the bench for the foreseeable future, I set the land speed record for turning toned muscle into flab and stacking on more kilos than a bulk-buy spending spree at the butchers. No surprises when excess skin started climbing out of undies, bras, jeans and socks. (Not really socks; it just sounded good.) Couple that with the food allergies, bloat and an insidious thing called vestibular migraine, et voila! We have all the ingredients for the perfect cheesy melt-down.

So, externally I looked completely healthy (unless I was wearing a bra, a fitted t-shirt and jeans) but internally I was messier than a teenager’s bedroom after a sleepover with no parental boundaries. Looking in the mirror when naked was avoided like a snotty-nosed toddler with a stinky nappy. Looking in the mirror with just bra and undies on was doable, though only after buying bras and undies three sizes too big and tucking all the excess skin under the fabric. Fork the face-lift! I needed a body-lift!

Fat fingers. Fat thumbs. Rolls of skin gathering and unfolding over elbows and knees like a Shar-Pei dog being blow-dried. Bending over while wearing clothing with a waistband was like putting a sock on a balloon full of water. Solution? Loose clothing, elasticised waistbands and cotton Lycra tights. Ironic, wearing active-wear when completely inactive. I resembled a half full water-bed bladder. Relieving the pull of gravity on my body, I kept my hair long and wore it in a tight ponytail.

Let us not forget back fat. Back fat: a phenomenon common to women in their fifties. Stealthy in appearance, its modus operandi is to creep up on its victims from behind, attach itself barnacle-like, and spend the rest of its life cycle avoiding captivity. Left alone and free, back fat is quiet and comfortable; like a sleeping baby … in a sling … attached to your back. Woes betide if you wave or raise your arms above your head. Unforgiving in its wrath, back fat will whip around and bitch slap you in the face. Hard. Twice. From each side. It is not your friend.

Fat is subjective. Only you know how you feel. Not really. Nearly every woman over the age of fifty (except Elle and Demi) feels the same way toward fat and flab. Fat is forked. It isn’t as though contending with aging is painful enough. Nope, throw flab at us too. We can take it. We’re big girls. Exactly!

When having a fat day, I don’t talk about it. I am sick of hearing ‘but you’re not fat’ when I have handfuls of the stuff oozing out from bra straps, undies and waistbands. I don’t go outside on windy days in case I open up like an umbrella, am caught by the breeze and blown away; last seen floating over Antarctica. Picture a jib on a yacht before and after the wind catches it … yep, exactly. Tucked away neatly in its cover, it looks petite and svelte but when it’s uncovered and exposed to the elements – poof! Puffer fish! (I have the scales to back that up.)

Considering the options available to me – eating copious amounts of gelatine to firm up this soft, wobbly panna cotta; growing my hair long and wearing it up in even tighter ponytails; walking on my hands for the rest of my life (boobs would flop over my eyes restricting vision); surgery (never again) or exercise … hmmm, a little option paralysis happening – back fat bitch slap – I opt for exercise.

Some online shopping for a full body fat reduction suit, aka Lycra active wear, and a pair of comfy runners, I’m psyched to get started. All that stands between forking off the flab and me is a permission slip from the healthcare professionals who benched me. Flashing some over-enthusiastic wobbly bits at them may speed things up.

It won’t happen overnight. In fact, it may not happen. It is only theory at this stage. Though the thought of firmer thighs glimmers like an oil slick, enticing me to give it my best shot. I know loosing weight is harder as you get older, possibly because resisting dairy is harder as you get older. The incentive is there though. Every time I walk up steps or get bitch slapped in the face by my back fat. (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Scales and Blisters.

I am a stomach sleeper: a lover of pillowed pressure on my stomach, chest and face. Currently, I sleep on the right side of the bed. For some reason, known only to my subconscious and Freud, I will always choose the side of the bed furthest away from the bedroom door; regardless of how far away the nearest toilet is.

With my left leg slightly bent, my left foot standing sentry outside of doona and furry blanket cover regulating temperature, my arms bent underneath my chest and hands crossed, my face turned to the left snuggled into the most comfortable feather pillow on the planet, allowing the coolness of the cotton pillowcase to sooth me, I fall into a content sleep.

This is after the routine squirming, turning, pillow pummelling, throwing covers off, pulling covers back on, smoothing out a small wrinkle on the pillowcase, smoothing out a large crease in the sheet, turning on to my left side, rolling over on to my right side, pushing the corner of the pillow under, tugging the corner of the pillow free, straightening my left leg and bending my right leg, straightening my right leg and bending my left leg, turning on to my right side, repeat the leg straightening and bending and alternating. Think fish out of water. (A fish doesn’t have legs. Shut up. Oh, okay.) Think worm out of soil. (Um, a worm doesn’t have legs. Shut. Up.Oh, okay.) Think woman in her fifties trying to get comfortable!

One morning I woke up itchy between my breasts. I scratched at the itch without opening my eyes thinking, once scratched, the itch would go away and I could return to sleep. Before my brain had registered, I had scratched the top off a small lump, which erupted in fluid. What the fork was that? My eyes were open now. I panicked, thinking I’d scratched a mole, turned on the light, threw my glasses on my face and investigated.

There nestled in between my boobs were a dozen or so blister-like lumps and one red sore gooey with fluid; the lump I’d scratched. What the hell are those? And why are they so itchy? I went to the bathroom, showered, deodorised and sprayed perfume in the usual places. Screamed when the alcohol in the perfume made contact with the blisters: in the manner of Macaulay Culkin in the aftershave ‘Home Alone’ scene and put some fatty ointment between my breasts – my husband had used this ointment to relieve blue bottle jellyfish stings so it should do the trick.

Within the next hour there were blister troops spreading out under my boobs and were sending lookouts to reconnoitre the area above them. It has to be heat rash. We live in Queensland. It’s summer. Yeah, it’s heat rash … So, why haven’t they sprouted before now? Hmmm … puzzling. The blisters now come and go like the seasons. Regardless of weather, heat, cold, perfume, clothes detergent, soap, lotions, alcohol or lack thereof. Hmmm … puzzling-er.

Around the same time, or perhaps quite a few years earlier, I can’t remember: I’m fifty. (Am I? Yes, fifty-four actually. Fork! Yes! As I was saying …) Some time previous to the blistering appearance of the blisters, as I was pulling my undies down – there is a definite theme here – my fingers grazed some rough skin on my outer thigh. It was (and still is) the size of a five-cent piece, is slightly raised and feels rough; like well fried fish skin. Scales! I have scales! More ‘what the forks’ were internally asked. Another theme.

Thinking the scale was a one off and possibly an age spot or sun spot or whatever the fruit-loops the spots on the skin with no melatonin are called, I didn’t give it much thought; unless I was pulling down or pulling up my undies. That is until over the next few years another one appeared. And another. And another And another. Bringing us to present day and I am a fish! I have a scale on my upper right arm, the odd one or three on my shoulders and back, plus one which makes sporadic cameo guest appearances on my right calf. Occasionally, when I’m just about to shed, these little scales become itchy. I scratch them and they come away in dry, scaly clumps and bleed. It’s a win/win outcome.

Now, as I am of the go-to-the-doctor-for-pain-only persuasion, or unless I need a doctor’s certificate for flu or the like, the following may upset you. Warning. Warning. Cover your ears! Read the following at your peril. Seriously, you will be shocked! I do not prescribe to regular vag scrapes, boob presses, mole checks, blood tests, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum, fortes in fide, ad hoc, carpe diem. I know, I know. Scandalous! I hear ya though I don’t agree with ya! Not one to jump on a soap box (neither able to nor inclined to) and wax scathing about the health industry, we’ll just have to agree to disagree and … you were warned. Plus pap-smears and mammograms were obviously invented by sadist penis owners (just ask yourself how they find testicular cancer – not a sandwich press in sight!). And, I abhor needles.

The above has nothing to do with Dr Google though. Curiosity is how we humans developed. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it! So, I researched. (Another theme here.) Like a Spanish explorer sailing the seven seas; surviving vicious storms, dead calms, sea sickness, the odd burst blister between my boobs and a couple of bleeding scales. Land ho! (Who are you calling a ho? Oh, for forks sake …) I find that I am an excellent surfer. Gnarly dude, totally righteous. We interrupt this story to do a quick Internet quiz. Stayed tuned.

Eureka! (Or for those younger than 50 – Wahoo!) I have the answers. I am all knowledgeable and worthy of a Nobel Prize. A trophy? A medal? A sticker? How about a smiley-face stamp? Nothing? Really? So, after some self applied back patting … Food allergies! Eat eggs: break out in itchy bitchy blisters. Eat wheat: grow scales. So it’s off to the doctor for a celiac test. What the fork? I love eggs on toast! (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! The Great Gush.

Cramp grips my guts with Schwarzenegger-in-his-weight-lifting-prime hands, squeezing tighter and tighter, forcing the blood out at a rate reserved for an arterial bleed. My pulse has broken into a sprint; my heart is dancing a jig and the temperature of my body races to dizzying heights.

Throwing back the doona and furry blanket like thirsty Aussie blokes with cold beer, peeling socks off as quickly as professional chefs skin potatoes; the flannelette pyjama top (my favourite green ones with purple puppies) is unbuttoned and thrown to the floor as if on fire, and menstrual blood gushes out of me like being in me is the last place on earth it wants to be. Well, hear hear blood! Hear hear! Arny squeezes tighter, juicing me like a ripe orange. A blood orange. Fork!

I walk with my legs clenched firmly together, taking tiny steps, bent at the waist, hands rubbing stomach. Where did I put the ibuprofen? Where did I put the pads? Where am I? Why can’t I see anything? Woken up by my traitorous body with such suddenness in the very early hours of the morning, I forget I am staying with my sister on the Sunshine Coast, sleeping in my niece’s room, my belongings in bags and a suitcase against the wall, which I promptly walk into. Memory restored. Let there be light.

A pad is grabbed as though it’s a raft and I’m shipwrecked on a deserted bloody island. Boy, do you have your work cut out for you my super slim wing-ed pink friend! We make our way to the toilet. I turn the light on and look down, expecting to see a scene from the ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ movie. Nothing. No rivers of red contrasting against the green of my puppy PJs. No big, fat, juicy, leech-like clots oozing down my ankles. What the hell Schwarzy? Then, I pull down my pyjama bottoms and undies and sit on the toilet. Hasta forking la vista Baby! Armageddon in my Bonds.

Periods in your fifties are like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get but you know it’s going to taste like shite because you ate all the nice chocolates in the period pre-cursor to the period. Just when you think it’s safe to go back in the water, you leave a blood trail so long and pungent sharks nudge each other, wink and congratulate themselves on not having to work hard today.

Bloody hell! Exactly! We are talking blood flood … of biblical proportions (not that the bible would give any insight on the subject of death by menstrual bleed, it was written by a bunch of blokes – even if they did wear dresses). Blood all over the crutch of my undies with dotted blood ellipsis intimating ‘but wait, there’s more’. And … there is. Up the back of my Bonds. Up the back of my puppy pyjamas. Between my butt cheeks. Up my back. How does that even happen? Flashbacks of changing ripe green, lumpy crap-filled nappies with pooh escaping from the rear exit and the fruitlessness of asking that same question. With a bucket load of self-pity, I clean myself up as best I can with toilet paper. It’s okay, I tell myself, just put on a clean pair of undies and sleep in those and a t-shirt; you’re too hot to wear pyjamas anyway, despite the temperature being six degrees Celsius.

That is when I remember … I washed all my clothes earlier in the evening, before drinking too much of whatever that fizzy pink wine was. I have no clean, dry undies. FORK! FORK AND KNIFE! FORK AND KNIFE AND SPOON! Then I think to myself; if this is what you’ve done to yourself, what is the bed going to look like? Fork, fork, fork! With disgust, loathing, gagging and zero dignity, I stick the pad on the blood soaked Bonds. Could this get any worse? Ah, yep!

Move over Francis F. Coppola, there is a bloody menstrual woman entering stage left who eats horse for breakfast. (Gag: no she doesn’t! I know, it’s a little creative licence. Did you do a test for that? For what? For the creative licence? No – accompanied by a withering stare …) The crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets, which can count to 1,000, will never be the same; ever, ever again.

(Yes they will: Sards is great. Shut up. Oh, okay.) In my blood stained undies and with the pad with wings (as useless as the flightless emu’s) laying between me and the great gush of the twenty-first century, – absolute faith is placed in the branding offering security and confidence for the next few minutes, hopefully five – I strip the bed.

Knowing full well that no amount of praying, luck and wishful thinking will alleviate the fact that the massacre-worthy amount of blood will have seeped through the sheet (which can count to 1,000), onto the mattress protector (which should be renamed), onto the mattress: I pray for luck as I wishfully think, ‘Gee, I hope it hasn’t gone through,’ and begin to peel back the doona. OH MY PURPLE PUPPIES! Where the forklift truck is the ibuprofen?

This is proving to be a costly exercise. The government officials who decided to add GST to sanitary products rub their hands together, gleeful with their genius and thankful for their penises. New undies, new Egyptian cotton counting sheets, new mattress non-protector, new mattress, new puppy pjs, more pads with big-arsed butt crack covering wings. (Just purchase incontinence pads – undies and pads in one, more economical, and you can get the ones that won’t give you visible panty line. Bugger off. Oh, okay.)

What do you do when you are weak from lose of blood, exhausted from Arny mincing your guts to steak tartare, fed up with hearing the verbal diarrhoea oozing from your inner voice, hung-over from drinking too much pink bubbly stuff, tired as it is the middle of the night and traumatised by the carnage? You say ‘stuff it’, down two ibuprofen which could no longer avoid detection, climb into bed, pull the doona and furry blanket over yourself and promptly go to sleep. (Fork! I’m fifty!)