I’m angry. I feel frustrated. I am tired. I’m yelling at the kids. I’m complaining to my husband. I have this unexplained anxiety that makes me feel worried about EVERYTHING. I forgot to ring my mother for her birthday. I didn’t pick up a kid from school. I don’t see the point in cooking. My pants won’t do up. All this, and it’s not even 8am.  What the F happened to me?

Welcome to menopause. My cranky, anxious, bloated life. 

I’m a hot mess, and by hot, I don’t mean I’m some sensual hornbag bringing men and women to their knees with my overpowering sexual charisma. 

Nope. I’m just sweaty. Red faced. Like lava is flowing in my veins instead of blood. I never knew a woman could get that much heat in her head. I’m a nuclear reactor in meltdown. 

I’m Fukishima. 

And let me tell you, if you commit a crime against one of my cushions, like drop coffee on it, I’ll leak toxic radiation so fierce you’ll be able to charge your iPhone off it.

And my body hurts. Like a giant achy tooth. My lower back was so ouchy this morning I couldn’t put my socks on. That’s when a woman resorts to wearing Crocs. I reminisce on the good old days where I had shaggers back, not saggers back. 

Oh god – is that nostril hair? Since when did I start growing nostril hair? I guess it goes with my new beard. I can hang out with the hipsters making jam and slow-cooking meat. I never see the stray hairs until I’m in the car about to go somewhere important. Why didn’t John tell me I have a curly pube growing on my chin? That’s it. He’s on a sex ban.

Not that I ever feel like sex. I used to always feel like sex. Now I fantasise about a good night’s sleep. Unbroken. That’s my porn. Forget rippling abs and hard cocks. I’m all about thread count and Z’s. In my menopausal musings, I sometimes wish for my ideal life, where I live alone and my husband visits on Tuesdays. We can watch Netflix, he can rub my feet, make me a cup of tea, and when he leaves, I’ll yell the four words every man wants to hear… ‘Put the bin out’.

And I still haven’t done my pants up. I’ve resorted to the big T-shirt. Is this my future? Oversized T’s and open pants? Have I bid my waistline goodbye? When did it leave? If I’d known the waist was on the way out, I would have worn more skirts. And belts. I didn’t know I had entered the belt-free zone.

And my tummy. After 5 kids I resent the fact that I’m well in my menopause and people are still asking me ‘When is it due?’ I’m 53. I’m out of eggs. If I did have an egg left, it would be the one stuck to the carton with a feather on it. Although I’m flattered people still think I’m able to breed. 

Only smoke coming out these days. From my white hot rage.

And wow, do I get angry. Mainly at rude people rubbing my chubby tummy and suggesting I’m with child. Mainly at my pants for not doing up. And mainly at myself for not being on top of this. 

For not seeing this happening. For not fighting the good fight for my wellbeing. For not being the same as I was before. 

I have had to get to know this new woman. This different body. This slowed down metabolism. This hot, hot angry woman. 

I’m fierce. And I’m soft. 

I’m taking charge. While there are some changes I don’t love – there are others that are kind of cool. 

Like, how I don’t need anyone’s approval. Like my love of being alone. Like how I used to shut up because I hated offending people but now, I speak up. 

If you bully a teenager on a check-out and I’m in the queue behind you, then you better watch out. There’s a chubby woman in a pair of Crocs with her pants open who has just been waiting for an opportunity to offload some rage.

I’m menopausal. I’m bloated. But watch out world, I’m still bloody here. An estrogen-deprived superhero with a dry vagina and a warm heart.

Change is coming.


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