toooo hot. i am waaaay toooo hot waaaay toooo often. this peri/meno/post thing just goes on and on and on.
i have friends – they know who they are – who have had “i-think-i-had-a-hot-flash-once” experiences. how – exactly – is this equitable?? perhaps – in some involuntary way – i have taken on their burdensome backpack full of hotflashes…i have – involuntarily – embraced hotflashes for the whole gender. it would seem so. speaking of gender – what – exactlyyy – is the yang-for-men of this – our yin?
hot flashes are “damnedable” as my sweet momma would say – pretty much the harshest of her language save for a few choice times. they wreak havoc. they turn the best of intentions into sweaty messes. good grief. even writing that gives me a hot flash. let’s just say they are … not attractive.
regardless of my distaste for these hormonal ridiculousnesses, they often happen at night – in the middle of my insomnia or, if i’m particularly unlucky, in the middle of a snippet of sleep.
so i try to plan ahead.
i open the window next to my side of the bed. i figure if i can feel the breeze coming in, i will feel better – refreshed and relaxed, ready for sleepynightnight.
it doesn’t matter what the temperature is outside. it’s still … necessary.
d doesn’t always agree. there he is – all zen-like, snugged into the flannel sheets, under the comforter and the quilt, his 32 degrees long underwear at the ready. reticent.
i mean, he always relents. thank goodness!
but i guess he’s imagining he is out there with agnes and chip hailstone, ricko dewilde, andy and denise, jesse, sue aikens – living life below zero – in the overnight.
she reached into her rainbow bag and pulled out two rainbow buttons, handing them to us. “brilliant!” i thought, while also thinking we should have brought our “be kind” buttons and given them out as well. this darling little girl, accompanied by her mom, stood in the center of the blocked-off pridefest road, twirling right and left, gifting festgoers with happy faces.
i was awake most of the night. it wasn’t until sometime after the birds began showering the rising sun with song that i fell asleep. middle-of-the-night musings often keep me awake these days. the harvard medical school reports that insomnia is present for 35% to 60% of women after menopause. i’m seriously thinking someone needs to do something about this.
so it is in those wee hours of the night i ponder everythingunderthesun. it is like my own personal pablo neruda book of questions – random, open-ended and with no real answers. all over the map, i revisit growing up, walk through previous houses, go back on vacations, have conversations all over again, list groceries, think about deferred house maintenance, slink around the edges of new creative projects, send positive energy to beloveds. i wonder about the universe answers – if they will drop in, like a sticky note from the heavens above. i list gratitudes – simple, like this tiny girl’s happy face rainbow buttons – and complex, like straddling the line of relevance. i list worries – like the day to day challenges of aging, the challenges of a world fraught with superficiality and division, the challenges of the environment, the heart-challenges of most important relationships. the one thing i do not do is sleep.
i’m pretty sure i am not necessarily capable of solving everything at 2am. and 3am is worse.
but a couple minutes after 4am – when the birds gather in our neighborhood trees and sing up the sun and its roygbiv – and i am present – that is when most of it – the kaleidoscope of life – makes sense.
shopping is not really the joy it used to be. i haven’t kept up with the fashionistas and i have a tendency to wear the same thing – some iteration of jeans and a black top – so it sort of limits the options i give myself.
but, there comes a time…yes…i have reached that time…when some of the clothes in your closet no longer fit – shall we say – properly. it sneaks up overnight, season by season. and suddenly, you move into the next season and have nothing but your grown son’s hand-me-down basketball shorts to wear. these do not generalize to every occasion. as a matter of fact, these don’t generalize outside the house and the backyard, though i did wear them hiking in hot and humid north carolina mountains last fall. so there is a bit of an exception to the basketball-shorts-caveat: if you know no one and there is no chance of knowing anyone or any chance of meeting someone you might want to know, it is ever-so-possible to wear the hand-me-down shorts.
regardless, it was time to shop.
i groaned as i entered the department store. one must be in the right frame of mind to try on clothes. one must be out of one’s mind to try on bathing suits, so that will have to wait for a whole ‘nother day. i went to the rack with bermuda shorts and capris. and discovered this newfangled-to-me thing called “comfort top” or some such lingo.
now everyone knows that the button-zip fly on jeans (and shorts and capris) wreaks havoc on whatever top you choose to wear – no one really wants to accentuate their midsection and yet, the zipper-button combo does just that. tunic meets zipper-fly. not good. so, there was merit to this comfort top premise…no buttons, no zippers. just a “smooth slimming panel” – that made me think of both maternity clothing and the elastic-waistband-pants i vowed never to wear.
nevertheless, i tried them on.
i will not burden you with the rest of the shopping experience.
suffice it to say, i left with the comfort top capris.
i have yet to wear them, however…it’s the beaky rule…save them for a bit…
i’m wearing the hand-me-down basketball shorts right now, trying to deal emotionally with the move i have made into “comfort top” wear.
he’s being quiet about it all. that’s probably a good thing.
i have experienced motion sickness my whole life. no books, no games, no phone-use, no looking down.
this was a problem when – at eight and ten – i couldn’t drive. and at eleven. and twelve. and…at every turn on the number line.
they say as people a-g-e it can go two ways…either get better or worse. i thought that maybe menopause – with all its marvelous gifts and surprises – might generously reward me with a hormonal shift in my motion sickness tendencies. but no. post-menopause i can report that these days it has gotten worse. i want my menopause money back.
so i drive.
everywhere.
all the time.
and david sits in the passenger seat and entertains me. he feeds me snacks and treats and reads the news or tidbits of interesting factoids, he gps-es and makes sure we stop at rest areas to walk around a bit.
and then…
the other day these funky glasses came across my feed. i wondered how my feed knew. about the whole motion sick thing. ahhh, your feed knows all.
i clicked. because that’s what we do. we click.
and it brought me to an info-ad for motion sickness glasses with a blue liquid in them that is supposed to readjust your brain in such a way that you will no longer be motion sick. you will – indeed – look a little goofy, but you will not be motion sick.
the original ones were made in france and the ceo says, “âmotion sickness comes from a sense of conflict between what your eyes can see and what your balance system and your inner ears can feel.â they have two round lenses in front and two on the side, the hollow rims each half filled with blue liquid. the liquid moves with the movement of the boat or vehicle, creating an artificial horizon. âyour eyes always get the reality of the movement and get a signal that is consistent with the balance system perception.â in the same way as generic anythings, there are many other companies making them now as well.
i’ve never actually seeeeen anyone wearing these, but they seem like nothing shy of a miracle.
have you tried these?
i’m seriously wondering if my brain would participate.
most of my friends who are my age are retired. they have had long and dedicated careers and, at the time of retirement, chose to retire and were ready to change directions and do something new.
some of them are grandparents now and wee babies and rambunctious toddlers, children growing, growing, take up their time. precious moments spent with these tinies, indelibly etched on their hearts, both.
some of them have chosen to spend time immersed in reading. they have cultivated friend groups who share their passion for diving into books, they discuss and ask questions and share.
some of them have opted for sizing up, adding acreage and livestock to their lives. i can think of no better example of this than linda who, with bill, has adopted multiple alpaca and a horse and a goat and the-most-adorable-donkeys.
others have elected sizing down, heading south, condos and pools and beaches and sun in their future.
some, like the wander women, have chosen a plan, shedding much of the life paraphernalia we all accumulate – absolute free and loose adventure in their sixties, opening themselves up to thru-hike and bike and camp and, inbetween, live full-time in their rv.
and some feel lost, trying on various hobbies for size, seeking satisfaction and fulfillment, an elusive goal.
i am not retired. i am no longer holding a we-pay-you-to-do-this-job but i’m not retired. i haven’t quite figured it all out yet, much like, well, probably, many of you. but i spend lots of time creating…writing, cartooning, writing. i have found birds and plants are speaking to me more these days and i have also found that i don’t require being around a lot of people. i guess i’m a little bit more introverted than i thought.
people have told me that – in losing my last position in a four decades long career path of music ministry – i can redefine. they, in all innocence and with sincerity, have told me that it’s an opportunity for a new beginning. i hasten to say that they might be sighing inside to themselves as they say this, grateful that they don’t have to start anew. we’ve all done it…sometimes it’s easier to be generously gracious when it’s not your challenge. nevertheless, it does feel like a new beginning, so that part is right.
but, in seeking inspiration, coming from life, from the universe, from reading an article, from a conversation, from moments blowing dry my hair, i realize that maybe in looking forward i am avoiding that which is obvious.
linda had more time to pick up knitting needles after she retired. she uses the wool from her alpaca, which she has cleaned and spins, to create beautiful knitted gifts. my favorite fingerless gloves, the ones that always remind me of the canyonlands with my beloved daughter, were made by her. she returned – in this time of a-little-more-space – to what she knew, what she loved to do.
the map of inspiration may bring me forward. but in its forward-ness, it may remind me also of what i know. the map might point out my waiting piano, the pencils scattered on the music stand, the boom mic stand in the corner. it might point out the pieces of writing i’ve started and put aside. it might point out the glee i get from producing our cartoon. it might point out the camera and the poetry and the ahhh’s they bring me. it might connect the dots back. to me.
no book on menopause or post-menopause – that i have read thus far – really prepares us. i haven’t found a steponesteptwostepthree-handbook on how to sort this. the phases of a mom’s life intersect and overlap and are messy and as full of emotional upheaval as they are full of gratitudes for blissful. every piece, in my own messiness-of-this, is sticky and pulls at every other piece, like marshmallows in hot-off-the-bonfire s’mores. no matter the professional pursuit, the hobby, the exercise, the diet, the zen-yen, it is all interwoven with the loss of mom-identity, the constant babystep-by-babystep redefining of relationship with one’s children and one’s self.
of early days of motherhood, anne morrow lindbergh in “gift from the sea” wrote essays sparked by seashells, “eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.” she is the “still axis within the revolving wheel of relationships, obligations, and activities.” in a metaphoric nod to the shell argonauta, anne paints the picture of the mother argonaut floating to the surface and releasing the young, then floating away to a new life. sailors, she says, consider this shell “a sign of fair weather and favorable winds”. yet, she muses, “what does the open sea hold for us? we cannot believe that the second half of life promises ‘fair weather and favorable winds’.”
it is a total reorientation. it takes time to re-find the center of gravity. true center. even with a child of 32 and a child of 29, i find this not to have been or be instantaneous. one does not click off the light-switch, or touch the base of the 1980s brass touch-on-touch-off lamp, turning off the questions of identity. it’s the yarn of a new cape, from mom (and all the other titles) to woman (and all the other titles).
“whether we’re talking about giving up baby clothes, toys, artwork or schoolwork, the issue is not mere sentimentality. it’s about letting go of our children. […] we think that keeping all of those things will let us keep a little of each child who left us.” (claire middleton – “the sentimental person’s guide to decluttering”) i would guess that, even in my intentional attempts to set wind for their sails, my children would cite my fierce hanging-on to them. at the least, they would attest to my quiet weeping at their leaving, each time they leave.
i clean out the house, clean out one thread of four decades of career, glance at my piano – always whispering to me “don’t forget this is who you are too”. i write, i cartoon, i write more. and then, more. i think about composing – new simple feathers of music, pieces that would float in breezes and find center. i sit in quiet. i wonder.
is this an identity crisis?
“but there are other beaches to explore. there are more shells to find. this is only a beginning.” (anne morrow lindbergh)
a rock and a hard place. he is wedged between them and help-me-i’m-wedged-and-i-can’t-get-out he can’t escape. there is no choice but to say the wrong thing. go either way and he has sunk miserably to the levels of pond catfish, carp at best.
in these days of changing-changing-changing bodies and expectations of ourselves, we peer in the mirror and are astounded at what we see staring back. menopause and “men”opause (whatever on earth that is called) – in all its glory – has taken its toll on our metabolism and our hips and someone with a line-defining pen has carved on our faces while we sleep in the night. and those jowls. let’s not forget them.
so while i want him to understand – to really get it – to grok it at a cellular level – to feeeeeel my pain, he is thinking, “she’s beautiful” and tells me so. ohmyheavens, seriously? can he not share in my astonishment, couple with my what-do-i-do-now-ness, sympathize in a big-big way, help me pick out jeans in the next size?
there is no winning here.
it is the perpetual “does my butt look big in this?” question. over and over. forevermore.
he can “pretend” not to notice, which undermines his believability factor and, ultimately, leaves him stranded with no credibility when i am facing down the mirror. he can acknowledge and discuss the merits of aging with me, leaving me incredulous that he would suggest that i am aging. he can try to play long ball – riding the fence – acting like he can’t hear me – changing the subject.
no matter what, he will find himself in the rock garden.
eh. who am i kidding? it’s more like a deep, dark quarry.
the chasm between women and men widens post-menopause. i mean, it’s not exactly a divot before that. theyyy – meaning men – love to solve for things. everything. no matter what. weee – meaning women – sometimes just want to talk or vent or express how we feel. we are completely capable of solving-for when we want to be. and we are also completely capable of asking for help, asking for advice, asking for solutions…when we want them.
but, ahhh….that chasm. there are moments i start a conversation and announce, “i just want to vent.” it absolves me of guilt when i start growling if he starts to solve for the issue.
as we all know, many – and i won’t say “most” here, to avoid generalizing – many men can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. in mere seconds after placing his sweet problem-solving head on the pillow, d will be sleeping. down and out sleeping. meanwhile, my head is on my pillow, pondering life and all its idiosyncrasies. i find it flabbergasting how quickly time passes in the day and how slowly 2am – 5:30am crawls. or 12:30am – 3am. or 1am – 4am. it’s a goulash of wee-hour-clock-combinations.
so, while changing diet and exercise and patterns all seem like spiffy-doo-dah ideas, when one wants a little sympathy, one does not want spiffy-doo-dah suggestions. just sayin’.
not that i’m speaking from experience or anything. đ
reverse threading 