menopause | Enchanted Seashells by Princess Rosebud

(Because I’m not sure WordPress allows us to use the word “assholes” in a post title.)

A little slice of life from SoCal, and a reminder that sometimes the best course of action is to stay away from other humans.

While it was still relatively cool with a marine layer and an onshore breeze, I decided to take a walk.

I usually walk anywhere between four to ten miles, and today I thought I’d walk around the lagoon and a bit more, probably four miles or so, ‘cos I have a lot to do later on.

It’s a beautiful day, the birds are out, families are walking, and we were all respectful of social distancing.

Well, ALMOST all of us.

I swear, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with some older post-.menopausal white women with short blonde (to cover the gray) hair.

I’m not shaming them, as I sorta fit the description myself apart from the short hair and wheat belly Trumpian bitterness. (Inside joke for my local peeps,)

I decided to take the long way home and detoured to a public path that winds around a subdivision that once upon a time was a gorgeous habitat for a lot of coyotes and bobcats and even deer and mountain lions. It WAS spectacular. All that’s left as mitigation is this path.

Whenever I encountered another human, we waved hello and each moved to the opposite side of the approximately six foot wide trail, to respect the state-mandated distancing.

Then this happened.

An older couple approached. He was a nondescript white man; she was the person I previously described. I tried to anticipate which side of the path they would move to and I moved to the opposite. Then, in sync, they moved to the other side, so I moved away, thinking we had a silent communication glitch.

THEN, the woman stood in the middle of the path facing me with her arms outstretched, as if to block my way, and they demonically laughed.

I AM NOT KIDDING.

They OBVIOUSLY must not have realized that despite my tiny size, I’m a fire-breathing dragon with the cussing ability of a merchant mariner–and possess zero filter.

I said, “That’s really fucked up.”

He said, “Then don’t walk around here.”

I said, “What. the. fuck. I’ve lived here for thirty-five years.”

Like a toddler, he responded, “We’ve been here for forty.”

I said, “You are full of shit.”

…snd I kept walking before the incident escalated. I wish I had thought to take a pic of them, but I just shook my head at their abject stupidity.

Who would think it funny to deliberately defy the guidelines to keep everyone safe from this virus? (While I’m not even sure what Covid IS and how it got here, I’ll play along for the greater good.)

Why bother being such assholes for no apparent reason? My hair was in a ponytail and I wore a hat so I can’t even think it was because they hate curly hair.

In the old days, an encounter like that would have ruined my day, but now I realize it’s their problem and not mine, and I don’t take on their negative energy.

However, I confess that it felt really really good to breathe a little fire, hee hee.

“Nature gives you the face you have at twenty; it is up to you to merit the face you have at fifty.”–Coco Chanel

Two special dates: July 1966 and April 2007

Beginnings and endings.

July 1966 – Detroit, Michigan

I’m in the bathroom, calling out to my mom.

“MomMomMOM MOMMEEE!! Where ARE you? Guess what?”

You know what they say, a mom always knows.

“Honey, I bet you just started menstruating, am I right?” (She was a nurse and always always used a medical term instead of slang. Like we always said “urinate” instead of pee; vagina and penis instead of -well– instead of anything else.)

After a hug and a lengthy (yawn) tutorial about personal hygiene, my mom took me out for lunch and a shopping spree to commemorate this milestone towards womanhood. She told me that when she first began to menstruate, all she got was a slap in the face from her mother, some kind of archaic ritualistic symbolism that had something to do with the fact that her father (my grandfather) was a rabbi. She told me that she was horrified and never forgot it, and if she ever had a little girl, she’d mark the occasion with a celebration, not a punishment.

At school it was called “Aunt Flo” or “Secret Sam” (don’t ask me why.)

Back then everyone used cumbersome huge Kotex pads attached by a hellish contraption known as a “Kotex belt.” Made up of white elastic encompassing your waist along with two plastic clips that attached to each end of the pad, it took some getting used to — and felt very much like my biking shorts do now. It was a great day when I graduated to tampons.

That started years of worry. Worry about waiting to “start”. Worry about what to wear to avoid an accident, and later, worry about NOT starting, waiting every month with a silent prayer to the Period Goddess — please oh please let me start; I’ll be more careful next time. And then getting married and wanting to start a family; holding my breath every month and willing my body to NOT– becoming compulsively scientific, taking temperatures and stressing over ovulation days and counting. Worry, worry, worry.

Worry about the baby I did become pregnant with…will he be healthy, will I be a good mom, will I produce enough milk, can I protect him from all harm and sadness–the what ifs drove me crazy.

April 2007 was the date of my last menses, my last period. At the risk of alienating my peers, I have to be honest and admit that I had no symptoms of menopause — I experienced none of the common complaints. Oh, I had an occasional hot flash–which I actually enjoyed since I’m always cold — for a few brief moments, it felt like I had my own personal heater. And once in a while, I’d feel a bit tingly which brought back awesome memories of a similar feeling when I was breastfeeding and my milk “let down”. I told my doctor all this and she nodded her head and said she had experienced the same sensations.

I am so happy to be done with all that worry. I don’t have to check the calendar every month and worry about when or if I’m going to need to carry tampons with me.

It’s not that I’m not still kinda crazy, but my level of worry is diferent. Not that I don’t worry constantly about my son, but he’s a grown up thirty-two- year-old Yale professor and my worry for him is a bit less intense.

I feel freer. Tranquil. Confident. Satisfied. I can take a deep breath now and exhale.

Don’t get me wrong; I do believe Coco Chanel. I still work out like a fiend every day to fit in my size two skinny jeans; I fight the good fight with Botox and color my gray hair, but I’m a very happy fifty-eight-year-old, and proud to say it. Bring on the next chapter of my life. I’m ready!

This post is written for a Generation Fabulous BlogHop. Generation Fabulous is a new website for and about women who are rocking middle-age and beyond. Please click here to see more.