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!)