Our dog was spayed this week - poor thing suffered the indignity of having her bits shaved and I felt guilty for about 3 minutes for denying her doggy rights to parent her own pups. She is only 11 months old, but we had a taste of her hormonal tantrums with her first season and her phantom pregnancy, so didn’t want to add a puppy-pregnancy into the cocktail of human hormones bubbling away nicely in the background.
And what a cocktail we are brewing. Two teenagers, two mid-lifers – one of them very crotchety and hot; and a recent full moon. It is as if god were a man. I am sure if she was a woman, she would not have invented the menopause - and if she had, she would have made sure it didn’t clash with the onset of puberty of her offspring. Some mornings, we make it all the way to stirring the porridge before I crack.
I have mentioned this before. It isn’t the boys. Yes, we get frequent eye-rolling, the stomping up the stairs, the chat-back and the complete lack of urgency when it comes to having to be somewhere five minutes ago. But on the whole, they are doing OK. It’s me. I can admit it here as the boys are horrified that I sometimes write about them in a blog, so never read this anyway.
What is it about the surge of rage I feel rise in me, over the most ridiculous and trivial point someone has made? Why am I so very, very impatient? Why do I have a nagging urge to scream at the top of my voice for no reason? I shout and grumble at the television and mutter under my breath in supermarkets (thank goodness for facemasks at the moment, as no-one can lipread my sarcasm). The kids tell me I have started saying, ‘a thank-you would be nice’ if I don’t get the acknowledged wave when I let someone into my line of traffic; and automatically snarl ‘dickhead’ if someone dares to. I snap at the boys and repeat things 45 times. Like Jekyll and Hyde - one moment I am chatting away with them, asking them about their day and, of course darling, help yourself to a snack. Next, I am barking at them for making the wrong kind of mess. Jeez, I even violently hit the keys on my keyboard as if they are actually responsible for the BS I spout.
Getting older is one thing. I am perfectly prepared to start losing my glasses or walking halfway up the stairs before forgetting the purpose of my journey when the time is right. I have lamented previously about my reservations of ageing and am still digging in my heels and dying my hair - but THIS? THIS was brushed over in biology lessons. THIS was unmentioned alongside menstruation and never discussed in pre-and-post-natal classes. The M word was something you sometimes heard about in hushed tones from older friends, or if you happened to hear a snippet of Woman’s Hour. I sailed through my 20s, 30s and 40s with naïve jollity only to be stopped in my tracks when I hit 50. Unlike puberty or pregnancy, which signify fertility and new beginnings, THIS has the added whammy of signifying the end of something significant. Men have the ability to reproduce until they day they die, provided the tool kit is still willing and working. Not us. Nature tells us that it is time to stop. And – just to be cruel – this end of fertility celebration is accompanied with some of the most ridiculous symptoms known to woman – which, until I actually suffered a hot flush, I thought was made up. Menopause. Break up the word. Men – O, Pause. Very apt. They didn’t tell you about the lack of libido either.
I am looking over at my poor old pooch licking her wounds. Do you think she has any idea what I have saved her from? Actually, I have no idea if dogs go through a menopause (to save you from googling, I just did that, and they don’t). If not spayed, they continue to have heat cycles and as they age, these become less frequent and they gently decrease their fertility as they ease into old age. Sounds perfect, poetic even and far more sensible.
Half of the world’s population go through this important change once in their lives, regardless of whether they have had children or not. Fact. However, in the West, we sweep the natural concept of menopause under the carpet, as if it is something we should be ashamed of. In other parts of the world, older woman are revered – the natural drop and change of hormones is seen as a badge of honour and a rite of passage. In Japan, for example, there isn’t even a word that translates as ‘menopause’ and the natural change in a woman is celebrated. Perhaps we should take a leaf out of their book.
In the meantime, I will continue to ride this rocky train of ups and downs, counting the days until it reaches its destination. I will stick with the inevitable rise of anxiety, the thinning of hair and thickening of thighs. I will stick with the night sweats, the hot episodes at inconvenient moments of the day and the short temper. Hopefully my nearest and dearest will bear with me, as they continue to whisper and tut at my unpredictability. Hopefully they will realise it isn’t the real me who jumps down their throat and stifles their conversation with contempt. Who would have thought the teenagers in the house were winning the maturity competition?
Excuse me while I unbutton my shirt, open the window and yell expletives to the sky.
© The Real Tilly Fairfax
What you must remember is that the age of fifty (50) is the first of the best years of your life. You have been freed from the monthly 'curse' cursed by the female God, freed from nurturing your issue and freed from everything that restricts you. Most successful men and women reach their peke at 50 and I wish I was at that age once more. Joan Bakewell, Kamella Harris, Frank Sinatra and Chris Sullivan (oh that's me!!) to name but a few and don't forget Kirsty Wark. From the age of 50 you will find out that all the youth oriented magazines and TV shows invented the myth of youth.