I was probably the only person alive who wasn’t aware that October 18th is World Menopause Day. World. Can you imagine?
It took me back a bit. Who on earth would have thought this was something to commemorate? What am I missing? I suppose it could be the contribution hot flashes make to global warming, the hormonal swings, perhaps the amazing determination the female body can show in hanging onto every single calorie it ingests and instantaneously storing it as fat on what used to be a waistline. But no, although those features of ‘the change’ are truly awe inspiring, I will take it that it is about finally saying goodbye to a not so wanted friend, that sweet feeling of relief upon closing the door after a houseguest has overstayed her welcome.
That got me to thinking of the strange relationship many of us have had with this cyclical blood, and times without it. Some of us started dealing with it long before we were ready, others waited longingly to be part of the club, (and were sorely disappointed once we realized what we’d been missing.) As one of the longing ones, I remember hearing the euphemisms of the other girls, who didn’t want boys to know what was up. I never did figure out why “on the roof” was one (were they feeling suicidal?), but little red headed friend stuck. Maybe because I had a red-headed friend, who happened to be a pain more than a friend.
Even though I have tried to be cheerful and positive about its onset with my daughters, the words always felt insincere. I mean, really, it’s like trying to sell a rabid raccoon to someone who wants a puppy. I’ve never found anything cute or feminine about bleeding all over the place.
Yes, I’ve become a heretic. I had my dog eared copy of Our Bodies Ourselves in college. I was empowered. I’ve read The Red Tent. And I will be the first to wax eloquent on the joys of carrying a child in one’s body, giving birth, nursing it. But please, was this monthly mess really necessary? It sure didn’t make me feel like a moon goddess.
As in most women’s lives, there were times when she came too often, and times of worry when she didn’t show up on schedule. But never, ever, can I say that I enjoyed this womanly experience. Not in almost 40 years.
So, I am taking the leap that this commemoration is for those who have crossed to the other side and can finally celebrate that it is over. Their little red headed friend has gone home, and isn’t coming back. No more worries about wearing white pants on the wrong day. No cramps. No bloating. No PMS.
Meanwhile, I wait for that magical moment, which is only realized in retrospect. I’ve heard many tales of women who thought they were there, and then, in the eleventh hour, she reappeared. So I guess it’s not over until it’s over. Just like at the beginning, our bodies do what they want, when they want. Perhaps if she had behaved herself, and remained predictable and honest, I wouldn’t feel as strongly as I do now. But in the past few years, the unexpected visits, playing with my mood and sapping my energy, intruding on vacations, have grown tiresome and old.
In fairness, and in honor of this specially designated month, I expect this transition comes with an element of sadness and loss. Some things are definitely no longer possible, and it is easy to spot the negatives. I see that I need to make an effort to focus on the role models who are doing this well and finding the freedoms. Transitioning into the first club was no walk in the park, but that membership, that time of life, came with some of the most amazing experiences I’ve had so far. The price of admission was worth it. I suspect it’s the same this time. At first it will be awkward, and at best, there will be aspects of this that are downright depressing. But, with time, I will find the joys that can only come with being right where I am. And because I can’t take anything seriously enough, I must share this gem:
“It was 1976.
It was one of the darkest days of my life when that nurse, Mrs. Shimmer, pulled out a maxi pad that measured the width and depth of a mattress and showed us how to use it. It had a belt with it that looked like a slingshot that possessed the jaw-dropping potential to pop a man’s head like a gourd. As she stretched the belt between the fingers of her two hands, Mrs. Shimmer told us becoming a woman was a magical and beautiful experience. I remember thinking to myself, You’re damn right it had better be magic, because that’s what it’s going to take to get me to wear something like that, Tinkerbell! It looked like a saddle. Weighed as much as one, too. Some girls even cried.
I didn’t.
I raised my hand.
“Mrs. Shimmer,” I asked the cautiously, “so what kind of security napkins do boys wear when their flower pollinates? Does it have a belt, too?”
The room got quiet except for a bubbling round of giggles.
“You haven’t been paying attention, have you?” Mrs. Shimmer accused sharply. “Boys have stamens, and stamens do not require sanitary napkins. They require self control, but you’ll learn that soon enough.” Laurie Notaro, The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club: True Tales from a Magnificent and Clumsy Life
World Menopause Day was started in 1984 by the International Menopause Society and the World Health Organization. World Menopause Day was designed to bring increased awareness to menopause and provide the worldwide members of the Council of Affiliated Menopause Societies to address the many issues women face during menopause. For more information, go to www.imsociety.org.