The Joy of Menopause my Arse

I don’t like getting old, possibly because I don’t actually feel like I’m older. But I am, the mirror in the hall confirms it every time I pass it, I try to avoid looking at it but on occasion and of course by accident I do catch sight of myself and recoil in horror as my mother looks back at me. This is it has to be said is distressing for me, only because she’s been dead for a number of years now.

Almost everything changed when I turned 50, it’s true. People sent me cards congratulating me on reaching a great age, seriously 50. Then others sent me cards declaring 50 to be the new 30 which nobody actually believes.

I meet friends for lunch and the talk always turns to our adult children, we’ve all know one another since our children were four or five years old and we’ve grown up together, yeah, on reflection we were very young and immature when we met. The other subject that seems to be discussed at great length and with some sorrow is our changing bodies.

Ok so if you’re not 50 and reading this, brace yourself, if like me you’re over 50 well you’ll know what I’m talking about.

The first thing I noticed was my neck, while my face showed the odd line my neck looks liked it needed a good ironing. No matter what way I looked or how high I held my head, there it was my poor un ironed neck. This is not so bad in the winter, the turtle neck is a blessing, but in the summer no matter how much anti wrinkle neck cream you put on it doesn’t help. There’s nothing to be done except maybe a face or neck lift. As I’m terrified of needles that’s not about to happen.

As a group this has happened to all of us, but some of the ladies in our little group have tried ‘botox’ I kid you not. The truth is they look very well on it. They compare stories of Doctors and clinics. I on the other hand have decided that there’s not enough ‘botox’ in one clinic to un wrinkle all the wrinkles I actually have.

My waist seems to have disappeared, it’s just gone and I can’t find it anywhere. But as my waist vanished my boobs took on a life of their own. They seemed to grow at a frantic rate, they oozed over the top of my 34B’s and trembled like jelly as I moved. At night I could hardly wait to get home to release them from 34B captors. They took on a life of their own rushing for the cover of my arm pits when I laid down. This wasn’t  too bad as some of my friends had complained that their boobs ended up resting on the inside of their elbows. I’ll just let you picture that for a moment.

It was about this time that I decided I needed some help. Oh yes, I needed help, the problem was the friends I’d normally ask about my problems were just as naïve about aging and the approaching menopause as I was. So I took myself off to the ‘Self Help’ section of Amazon.

That’s when I discovered the massive lie we as middle aged women were being fed.

‘The joy of Menopause’

‘The splendor of Aging’

‘The freedom age brings’

What a load of old tosh, seriously, the joy my arse, which I might  add had also grown. I decided I needed to speak to a professional, my Doctor, who was a lady of my own age.

So I paid €55 and explained about my boobs and how none of my blouses will close any more and my bras only hold my boobs prisoner for a few hours before I felt the need to release them. That my periods were so heavy that the industrial pads I’d bought sounded like a child’s nappy when I walked.  Although, for some reason she found all of this amusing, she assured me it was just the menopause approaching.

So I paid her €55 for something I already knew, it seems that stupidity may also one of the joys of the menopause. My arse.

 

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