Adolescence in Reverse

My beloved mentor, Robyn Posin once told me that, “Menopause is like adolescence in reverse.” She dubbed it “menolescence.” I was younger when she said this, and not yet fully aware of how true these words would become.

After decades of menstruation steady as a metronome, my fifties were marked with an odd syncopation, a rhythm I could neither predict nor dance to. Months would pass, bloodless, and I would think, “this is it,” imagining my last period had come at last. Then, I would sit in my big chair at work, cross legged, my preferred posture for listening intently to the things my therapy clients were too ashamed to say. The almost-hour would end and shifting to see them to the door, I would feel a torrent of warmth between my legs and think, “mutherfucking mutherfucker,” while I smiled and said goodbye.

In the bathroom, I would find my uterine lining had overflowed the dam of the precautionary menstrual pad I wore daily, just in case. I learned to bring a change of clothes to work, like the mother of a toddler, in case I wet myself. I learned to keep a bottle of peroxide in a cabinet to clean up the murder scene, the death of any sense of control over my own body.

I was fifty-six when my last period came, fifty seven when I could officially say I was in menopause. I longed for a Judy Blume book to walk me through the transition, Are You there, Crone? It’s Me, Julie. In this book, the main character would stop giving a shit about what other people said or did or thought. She’d be too tired to care, sleep disrupted by heat waves generated from a star within her own body, going supernova. Deprived of sleep, her days, would pass in a haze of forgetfulness.

I have long walked into rooms wondering what I came in for. Those years of perimenopause were that, All. The. Time. I left my keys hanging in the lock on the front door. I burned dinner. I could no longer compensate for my ADHD.

People wonder sometimes, if they hurt my feelings because they haven't responded to a text or email in a timely way. I want to say, “Oh honey,” because I can now call everyone honey, “my feelings are never hurt because,

A. Everyone is in the same toxic river of electronic junk and eleventy-billion desperate daily attempts to make us buy things and donate funds and pay the last dime of attention we have left as that same attention is sold to the highest bidder, quite literally, thanks to pay-per-click advertising (and yes, I would very much like to kill the person who came up with that fresh hell).

B. I have finally learned that absolutely nothing is ever personal. This is a whole other essay, nay, a book, which I will likely forget to write. Which brings me to…

C. As soon as I sent you that note, it fell out of my brain. My brain has become coated with some sort of midlife non-stick substance. I have no idea what I did five minutes ago, let alone yesterday. But, I’m so glad I reached out to you because I think you are amazing. The fact I can’t remember sending you that note is not personal. It’s just the non-stick coating on my brain.

Thus, I am reverting to childhood. I live in the moment because there is no past to dwell on. When I remember something, especially something from long ago, it’s like finding a treat hidden in a box of cereal or discovering a beloved lost earring I thought was gone forever.

My inner adult reminds me that tomorrow the gardeners are going to buzz around the house at seven A.M. like a swarm of horror-movie bumblebees with a microphones that go to eleven. Soon after, the amazing handyman will be here to fix a thing, and I will need to be awake enough to say the words about the thing. Still, I stay up way too late listening to a book while playing mindless puzzle games on my phone.

For a long time, I tried to curb this inner child. Hah! Now I plan my day around naps. My title on Zoom is “Empress of Naps.” Napping is my super-power. I have a friend who goes by “Captain Bathrobe.” I envision an enclave of us in our seventies and eighties, wearing jammies all day, the kind with feet. We eat jam sandwiches and have sticky hands. We fall asleep in random places, like cats. At night, our inner teens take over. We play poker and joy ride around the neighborhood, seeking out all-night drive-throughs where we can get tacos that will give us endless heartburn.

I understand, now, why people need to retire around sixty-five. There are only so many years we can keep our shit together and act like adults. It requires a certain level of hormones, I think, to muster up all the fucks required to behave appropriately, to wait in line at the DMV without throwing ourselves on the floor and having a delicious tantrum.

It takes a will of iron to sit in work meetings and pretend that org charts are fascinating, knowing that said charts will soon be replaced as budgets are cut and everyone, eventually loses the game of musical chairs that is “work in a fast-paced environment, staying ahead of the tech curve and servicing our (tantruming) customers with courtesy and respect.”

A couple years ago, after I broke my ankle, I stopped coloring my hair. I stopped caring about being pretty. Pretty requires time, effort, and self-objectification, which, I now see is a terrible thing to do to oneself. In the process, I have discovered an amazing secret. Little old ladies wield magical powers. In the never-to-be-written book, Are You there Crone? It’s Me, Julie,” the heroine discovers this power at the end.

Little old lades bring out the best in people. Wherever I go, people gladly reach things on high shelves for me. They carry my groceries to my car. Sweet twenty- and thirty-somethings teach me how to use features on my phone I never knew existed. In exchange, I shower them (and other random strangers) with compliments and gratitude. I like catching people in the act of being smart, funny and kind. I like calling them out on those things, ideally in front of their kids, parents, and spouses.

After all, we are all just children, and sometimes, angsty teens. We want to play with our friends and wear jammies all day (or run naked through sprinklers if it’s hot). Then adolescence hijacks our brains for half a century, give or take.

Hot flashes aside, I am glad to be a little old lady. I wouldn’t go back if you paid me.