Chip Butties and Gin

There has been a lot of chatter about the menopause recently, and not to take anything away from the celebrities who have been, quite rightly and refreshingly talking about it, but I have not seen or heard from anybody like me. I don’t have the energy or the motivation to exercise myself into a size 6. I don’t have access to a personal trainer or pots of money for lovely treatments and, maybe, one or two tweaks. I don’t keep to a strict diet. I like Wotsits and chip butties. And God, but I love a nice gin and tonic. So, whilst I applaud these ladies for talking out, seeing a fabulously fit and gorgeous celeb talking about the menopause doesn’t resonate with me. Because I have a roll of flab hanging over my jeans, a droopy eyelid and a varicose vein that looks like a blue snake.

My life has been remarkably unremarkable. I am a woman who got married, raised a family and worked hard. I come home at night, knackered, and do the housework and cook the dinner. I feel taken for granted, sometimes. And I am every woman who has seen her figure widen and her face wrinkle. Slowly, slowly age creeps in and takes over. And we don’t put up much of a fight. We are too busy being busy. Until menopause.

Suddenly the shit hits the fan. You have no clue what is going on because your brain fogs up overnight. Your pelvic floor stops being able to function normally and decides it is now perfectly acceptable to leak a trail of piss wherever you go. Getting up out of an armchair now requires assistance in the form of a massive, uncontrollable fart. It takes everybody by surprise, most of all you. And the more people in the vicinity the louder the fart will be. Sometimes you have to fart your way across the room as you walk. You try to make light of it but inside you are wondering what the fuck has happened to make your arsehole flap like a pair of elephant ears on a hot day.

And the mood swings! Anger boils over and out of you like red hot lava spewing from a volcano. You are happy, you are depressed, you are laughing, you are in tears all in the space of five minutes. You adore your husband he is sweet and understanding. You hate your husband – why does he breathe so fucking loudly? You are a nympho and want sex like a sailor on shore leave. You get upstairs and feel as sexy as a 97year old nun whose fandango withered, dried up and retired long, long ago.

And somewhere in midst of this madness, the old you is looking on, aghast at the changes being wrought on your body and mind. Clothes don’t fit, wrinkle creams are shit. Piss pads are a God send. It appears that, despite your best efforts, once you hit 45 you are supposed to have a beard and a moustache, a foot long grey eyebrow hair and Brillo pad pubes. If I didn’t wax my chin I could audition for ZZ top. Everybody gets on your fucking nerves. You are so tired and yet wide-awake night after night listening to your brain whirling up an anxiety storm.

It is frightening and awful and bewildering.

But it does not last forever.

So, buy the piss pads, go up a size (or two), pluck like fuck and talk about these changes. Hoof as dry as a desert in a drought? Get a tube of lube. Feel fat? Get some big suck it in pants or wear a thong, whatever. It is your party and you will find that, somewhere along the line, you stop caring about what other people think of you. The menopause is nothing to be ashamed of. It is an outrage! Before menopause I could hold a conversation at work, type an email, plan the evening meal and arrange my social life all at the same time. Now the only things I can do simultaneously are sneeze and piss. You can take up dancing, jogging, sailing, knitting whatever. Or you can just sit on your arse, like I do most of the time, and do sweet shag all. Laugh and drink Gin with your loved ones. If I can give you one last piece of advice: By all means do a parachute jump, swim with sharks, race on a motor bike but please, when wearing white jeans, don’t bend over and fart. Some risks are not worth taking.

©Middle age madness