(This piece is written very much tongue in cheek, and with a profound awareness that some people aren’t able to make the choice to have children.💓)
If we’re lucky, when younger, women can choose whether or not to have the babies they do or don’t want to have. Then we reach a certain age, Mother Nature steps in, and declares, “No more. You’re finished.”
Men, on the other hand, can reproduce until their dying breath.
Now, I’m not saying that at the ripe old age of 51 I’d want to be having any more babies (largely because the thought of giving up alcohol for nine months at this point in my life makes me shudder). But also because… well, let’s just say I remember very clearly an incident at a soft play centre when my lot were little, and realising it was not melted chocolate the children were playing with in the ball pit. Nope, I’m never going back to those days. I still have flashbacks.
It’s the inequality of it though, y’know? All these blokes are going about their business, knowing they still have the power to create life forever and ever. I mean… at 77, Mick Jagger got his 34 year old girlfriend pregnant. Robert de Niro was 79 when his last child came along, Pacino was 83. (Would these guys not just be firing out sand and dust and memories at this point? Clearly not.)
I don’t want to have any more kids, but I want it to be out of choice, not because Mother Nature has chosen for me.
I refuse to utter the M word. Queen Davina has encouraged people to talk about it quite openly, and I know that’s a very healthy attitude. But my (much unhealthier) attitude sees me pretty much sticking my fingers in my ears and running away, singing the Banana Splits theme tune to myself, very loudly. (You’ll probably only get that reference if you’re old enough to be approaching the menopause.)
Why couldn’t it be called something else? It sounds so clinical and depressing. I demand a menopause rebrand: “Liberation from Menstruation;” “Periods Have Pissed Off!,” or “Just Cuz It’s Gray, Don’t Mean I Can’t Play!” But no. It sounds like a horror movie made for Channel 5, doesn’t it? “It sweats; it itches; it’s always tired but it never sleeps; it walks into rooms then can’t remember what for. It’s… The Menopause.”
Then of course there are the hairy toes and chin pubes (both of those sound like bands I’d have gone to see in the early ’90s). They started to appear quite some time ago. In fact, I’ve become quite fond of my fluffy feet and spiky beard, but only in private. No one must ever see that my testosterone levels have remained at a healthy level. At the first sign of an open toed sandal, I whip that razor out faster than Zorro on speed. As for the stubbly face, I never leave home without a pair of tweezers these days: I can be completely hair free when I get up in the morning, but I could give Dumbledore a run for his money by lunchtime.
I’m constantly on the lookout for symptoms. Remember the mini heatwave we had in early June? I spent the whole of those three days desperately asking, “Everyone else is hot and sweaty too, right? This isn’t just me? This isn’t IT, is it?” I’m not saying I’m scared of the menopause, but at the first sign, I’m throwing myself headfirst into an HRT patch mountain. I’m going to be so full of oestrogen that just walking past a man in the street will make me pop out babies like a wet gremlin eating biscuits after midnight.
For about forty years of women’s lives they are laughed at and shamed for bleeding once a month, then for the following forty (fingers crossed!) or so, they’re laughed at and shamed for no longer being “desirable.” We can’t win! Ironically, one of the most watched porn categories now is “MILF”… although that does seem to be a term applied to anyone between the ages of thirty and eighty. At least I’ll be in good company: me, Jennifer Lawrence, Helen Mirren and Judi Dench. Don’t get me wrong—those women are all bloomin’ fabulous, but we’re hardly all ticking the same age category box on questionnaires, are we?
I’ve had to do some proper soul searching to see what exactly my issue is. I don’t want any more babies; I definitely don’t want to be compared to Mick Jagger, and I actually quite enjoy wearing leopard print now. (I’m sure that’s an early symptom: you reach a certain stage in life and the Pat Butcher/Kat Slater in you starts to escape.) So what exactly IS my issue with “The Big M?”
I suppose, if I’m honest, the thought of the menopause makes me sad, frightened and resentful. I’m sad that I took so much for granted when being pregnant and having my babies. I’m frightened that I’ll become completely invisible to society, and I’m resentful that men can’t possibly begin to understand how this feels. That’s not their fault—I know I’m being completely unreasonable… but that feeling won’t go away.
Sometimes I look forward to the freedom, other times I feel the need to cry. I guess that’ll be the mood swings.
Now. What did I come in here for…?