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Being a woman of a certain age

That age being fifty. The truth is, I arrived here sooner than I expected. To mark the occasion (and to make matters worse), people sent cards congratulating me on reaching a milestone age; other cards simply sympathised with me achieving the Big 50.

‘It’s all downhill from here.’ ‘Let the sagging commence.’ ‘Welcome to the OAP club.’ ‘Age is just a number. A BIG ONE.’ The truth is everyone thought they were hilarious, and some of the cards were. To shift my thoughts to more pressing matters, my particular favourite card:

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‘All aboard the menopause express’

At this terrifying prospect, I thought about getting a black shift dress and boxy hat—a bit like Jackie O—and weeping into a black lace handkerchief. But I had no time for all that: I was already on the menopause express heading south and I’d no idea when the journey would end or even what state I’d be in when I got there.

I’m not an uneducated or unintelligent woman but was totally naive about the symptoms menopause would unleash upon me. It was a journey I knew I’d be making but not one I’d prepared for. My mother had gone through ‘The Change’ in the eighties and never spoke to us about it. Occasionally she’d whisper the words ‘The Change’ to her sisters and they’d all roll their eyes and nod their heads in sympathy. Ireland in the eighties was a place where ‘ladies’ problems’ were talked about in hushed tones.

I had just about accepted the whole ageing process—I was, after all, still managing to read my text messages using a selfiestick, only after I discovered my arms were no longer long enough.

My body was changing at a rate of knots; if you’re easily offended or squeamish, look away now.

The first thing to go is the neck: it looked like it needed a good ironing. No matter how high I held my head, I still had this wrinkled neck. I had two options—surgery or turtle necks and I now own the entire range of turtle necks by Zara. My waist disappeared, gone overnight. I still haven’t been able to find it, or regain it for that matter.

My boobs took on a life of their own. They grew rapidly and spilled out over my 34Bs and wobbled like jelly as I moved. I couldn’t wait to get home in the evening so I could release them from their captors. It was such a relief to set them free—they were like confined animals and raced one another to my waist upon their release.

The truth is, I’m not a woman who is at ease with her own body; I don’t walk around naked or even half naked—never did—so for no other reason other than a slight moment of insanity, I decided it was time to see my changing body.

So I did. I stripped, well except for my drawers: I’m actually not that brave. I tiptoed to the mirror with my face scrunched up and my eyes closed as tightly as they could. I stood breathing deeply, still too bloody scared to open my eyes.

Minutes passed. Well, maybe twenty seconds.

I did it. I opened my eyes. This was my first mistake. There staring back at me was my torso looking like a slightly deformed. slightly geriatric, bald, cross-eyed bloke. It’s true: my nipples rested just up from my waist and either side of my protruding belly button and my Buddha belly rested on top of my ‘comfy cotton’ knickers, forming a sort of grin.

This was too much for a woman to take in one afternoon. I needed to lie down. No, I didn’t: I needed a xanax or a plastic surgeon, or both.

As Mother Nature was not about to make me an exception to the ageing process, I had to accept my changing menopausal body. I decided my only course of action was to do something about it myself. A little self help would go a long way as I wasn’t yet prepared for hormone replacement therapy (HRT) or any kind of intervention.

Yoga. That’s what I decided on so I signed up for a local yoga class for ‘mature women’. Oddly, I’d never considered myself mature before in either years or nature but I qualified for the mature yoga class.

I needed to wait for my period to pass—now the thing about periods is, they don’t just stop, oh no, they like to go out with bang. Periods often don’t make an appearance for three, four, even five months and then one morning you wake up, so shocked at the sight of blood you’re convinced there’s a dead horse’s head in the bed. Mine got so heavy that the pads I wore were so large they would make a shuffling sound like a child’s nappy as I walked. I would try to walk slowly simply to reduce the ‘nappy noise’—yeah that failed too, I had to accept that this was a noisy period in my life.

I’m going to leave you with some words of wisdom on how to cope with menopause. It’s like anything in life you need to prepare and you need to be made aware of the symptoms.

Hot flushes or flashes: yes they are so very unpleasant. Always keep deodorant and baby wipes with you. They strike when you least expect them to and with such force you’ll find yourself stripping. I use panty liners inside my shirts under my armpits.

Your hair gets thinner everywhere except on your upper lip and chin where it goes feral. Always have a pair of tweezers with you.

Aches and pains in your joints—I didn’t expect this at all. My doctor prescribed HRT to combat it, which worked. Now, I no longer move in slow motion or make groaning sounds when I get up off the sofa.

As for weight gain, I knew I’d get a little thicker around my waist but I had no idea my boobs would go to a DD. I haul them around with me and occasionally dress them up, but the truth is they operate independently of me and independently of one another for that matter. Buy the right size bra and stretchy jeans— you’ll look thinner and be a lot more comfortable in clothes that fit and move with you.

Flatulence is one that I did not expect at all. It’s loud and abrasive and it too sneaks up on you and frightens the absolute bejesus out of you and people around you. I don’t have a solution if you’re already in the midst of menopause, but if you’re not, do your pelvic floor exercises. I forgot to do mine and now I’m sorry.

Mood swings were something else I hadn’t expected to be quite so bad, but they really can be. My advice is not to be too hard on yourself. HRT seemed to combat this for me; my family have written a thank you letter to ‘them lovely hormone’ people.

Being menopausal is not the end of the world: as my mother whispered to her sisters, it’s ‘The Change’. Everything changes, your body, your attitude and above all, your boobs.

I would love people to talk about it more; I have been with women who refuse to mention it even in passing. So, my solution was to get myself a meno crew. We spend hours sweating and bitching, sometimes even laughing. But tell no one: that’s just between us. ■

Denise Smith

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