by Connie Stetson, of Fifty Is The New
As I was gazing this morning into my 15x mirror, plucking here and there, the increasingly annoying black whiskers on my upper lip, I reflected upon the changes in my life, my change of life, my menopause, what I am now calling the” menoblahs”; and as I pluck, pluck, plucked, I thought long and hard about how much really I hate this shit.
I was one of those women who actually looked forward to menopause. I could not wait for the freedom and the neatness, for clear skin, and a steady weight. I believed Dr. Christiane Northrup when she wrote about the “Wisdom of Menopause” and I looked forward to the promise of “The Pleasures of Menopause”. May I just say, in response to those two urban myths, and with my middle finger fully erect, “PTHHHP”!! I have not found any pleasure in menopause, and the only wisdom I’ve gleaned is to quit believing once and for always, anything a size 2, blonde, nip/tucked TV/author/doctor has to say. While I acknowledge that indeed I do have freedom from the tampon, I’m hostage to the hot flashes. I am tidily not hemorrhaging all over my white jeans, but some juice from somewhere would be nice. My skin, though I’m not breaking out once a month, is itchy and dry, and my weight? Well, it’s steady all right—steadily going up. When I gained the first ten pounds I said I’ve gone all fluffy, now I’m just plain heavy, man.
And I feel heavy in my spirit as well. This is not easy for me to admit. I have always been the snap-out-of-it girl, the bounce-back kid. The “C’mon gang—we can put a show on in this barn” type. Truthfully, I’m just not feeling it. I’m in a menopausal malaise that feels like I’m moving through molasses. My tack right now is to keep on showing up as if I am fully engaged and energized, (there is tremendous juju in the as if), but I am dragging my ass to the party, ya know?
Aside from the physical bullshit, which, have I mentioned, I hate? I am also struggling with yet another “who am I” crisis. NOOO—not again!!! The self I’ve worked so hard on, so lovingly created is melting, melting like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz, and I have to start all over—from scratch. Damn you, Dorothy Gale, you and your bucket of cold water! You cursed brat! Look what you’ve done! I’m melting, melting! Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness? I just hate it when that happens. I’ve worked so hard on my beautiful wickedness. Oh—and now I find out that I’m not even a Libra anymore, but a Virgo. A VIRGO!!!! No wonder I feel so out of balance.
So how do I go forward with my gray hair, my bad knees and my elastic waistbands? My first order of mental health business is to stop beating myself up for gaining weight. It is what it is right now, and I know what I must do to change that, and self-flagellation is counter-productive. I am watching what I eat and drink, limiting sugar and flour, and increasing my commitment to exercise. Aside from good muscle mass and burning calories, exercise releases serotonin and endorphins, those feel-good chemicals; and depression is fattening.
But the real challenge is in the re-invention, to see myself through an unfiltered lens and be at peace with this newer, older Connie. Oh, and by the way, there is only forward. I know there is not a better path to the future but the one that leads straight in. Follow the yellow brick frikkin’ road, right?
Illustration: Faded Rose, daily painting #168 by John Farnsworth
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