Look, I get it.
As a woman, once you’ve hit your mid 40s it seems as though menopause is suddenly all up in your business. Your friends are always whining about it. Your periods get sketchy. And Facebook starts inexplicably bombarding you with ads to go see Menopause The Musical. This was literally from my feed today.
Just, why
And for those transitioning into these heady years, it can be scary.
The first time I got a whiff something was afoot, I was sitting in a crowded rheumatology waiting room to get a new script for my arthritis meds. I was 45 years old. The vibe in the clinic was jovial: everybody else was grey haired and retired; time-rich and chatty. I was not jovial, because I had 15 minutes to get to school pick-up. I’d already been sitting there, grinding my teeth, for over an hour after my allotted appointment time.
And I was rabid.
Not just a bit stressed out, a bit pissed off. I was balls-to-the-wall livid. It radiated off of me and people were noticing, their eyes gliding warily away as I met each friendly gaze with pure, unfettered hatred.
When the wizened rheumatologist finally wandered out and called my name, I stalked into his room, incandescent. It took all my self-control to not punch him in the face. I couldn’t even sit down. Instead, I stood real close to him and spat out, “I need my script. Right now”. I literally had the poor old guy backed up against a wall. When I stormed out about a minute later, script in hand, the whole place was as silent as a morgue. I found a new, less tardy, rheumatologist after that little bust-up.
So! This was my introduction to the seedy underbelly of menopause. When my GP later told me it was peri-menopause and that it usually lasted years, I practically wept. There would definitely be a homicide, and I was definitely going to jail.
But here I sit a decade later, and my record’s still clean. Because, miracles that we are, we women are very adept at adapting. Sure I can talk about the ensuing night sweats and hot flushes, the next-level insomnia. The complete memory fart that has me fruitlessly chasing a lost train of thought I had .2 seconds ago (hours of fun when playing with friends. You never run out of things to say!).
I don’t want to talk about those things. I wanna talk about embracing the rage. And I don’t mean going around punching kindly old folk in the face, but rather taking on that new steel, that newly formed backbone. Because after years – decades – of having to put my manners in check, of having to play nice, and of putting up with all kinds of shit that so many women do as a result, I simply don’t anymore. I can’t.
That rage has seen me face off against misogyny and mean girls in the workplace, both for myself and on behalf of younger female colleagues who have yet to find their feet. I’ve gone head-to-head with drunken yobs who’ve hassled me and my mates at bars (“Whoooo, here come the MILFs!” We’re not here for you, mate). I’m more assertive as a driver on the road. In fact, I’m more assertive everywhere: restaurants, Ubers, supermarkets, relationships, even online. I no longer take shit. I’m now the kind of person who gets shit done.
And the reason is because I don’t really care what people think of me anymore. It’s liberating. Being young is an irresistible siren song, especially and obviously for men. I remember barely being able to get out my front door without some guy winding down his car window and propositioning me (it was the 80s), clusters of construction workers whistling and catcalling as I scuttled by (also 80s), or brazenly coming onto me at the bus stop/pool/local fish n chip shop. Every shout or whistle would make me jump out of my skin, and I’d curl my shoulders, hide my head – anything to stop the constant barrage of harassment and attention that I simply didn’t want or know how to handle at such a young age.
Nowadays, I’d give them the finger and tell them to fuck off. Because as a middle-aged female, the male gaze, the media and society at large are generally no longer interested in me, and I’m free free free to do and say as I please. And it’s a blessing. It’s a bloody gift.
So don’t fret about menopause, be it impending or current. Embrace your rage. Because within that rage, you’ll find your power. Thank you for listening to my TED talk.