FFS.
I love my friends.
I do. I really do.
But just recently, I’ve had cause to feel a little… uncomfortable about the direction of our conversations and missives via Whatsapp and the like, which have largely been focused on the subject of the bloody, sodding menopause.
Before we go any further, I would like to remind everyone that, in my defence, I am a prude. And it is not so much the fact that we are discussing the menopause in particular, it’s really that we are discussing bodily functions. I am not a fan of intimate talk, Biology teacher or not. The mere mention of the word n!ppl@s, and I get nasty contortions in my face and I want to puke. So it’s not exactly the menopause that’s the issue, but…
I remember the time when my friends and I stayed away together for a couple of nights in a log cabin in the snowy Devon hills. It was one of the first get-aways I’d managed without my darling kids, and we decided to pack a lot in to our allotted thirty six hours. I took my notepad and pen with every intention of completing a novel in that time (I know, I know!), but instead, I spent the whole weekend reading about the horrors of intensive farming practice in the USA, courtesy of the on-site bookshelf. (I wanted to slit my wrists by the end of that delightful tome, I can tell you.) But the activity that left me feeling most uncomfortable was the creation of the “Vulva Stones” (ew, I prefer Twunt Stones) – rubbing felted wool onto a pebble, creating a furry coating for it, and thereby generating an unusual piece of art that can, at times, look a little, er… yonic.
Well! I simply refused to take part! I snubbed the group activity, and took myself off to my bunk with the aforementioned book about torturing/eating animals – yet peeking down at my friends from time to time, who seemed to be enjoying themselves without me, whilst rubbing creamy soap into their wet, hairy rocks.
Perhaps I was missing something?
So yes, I am a little prudish. I know it’s WOKE to discuss the menopause.( And it’s woke to use the word woke!) The menopause is a bodily process – yet another one that most men will probably never understand. I’m all for equality, but is it really any of their business? (Which reminds me of a pro-choice sticker I took issue with recently: No uterus? No voice, it claimed. I wasn’t so sure about that one… Oh, so many conundrums to ponder over in life!)
There are expectations these days that men should understand these things – if they are readily discussed, alongside per!@ds and all that other personal shizzle I can’t type without cringing. But if one is like me – keen to maintain the mystique of femininity, then all this wokification regarding bits and bobs is not easy to stomach. Men have many privilges in this world. They don’t need to know our secrets too.
Sorry Davina. I know this is 2021. I agree that we should all be ok to talk about this stuff – and I can do it! I will absolutely do it if and when necessary. You and your fellow menopause warriors have very recently achieved a huge and monumental change in the way society caters for its matriarchs. HRT is now free from prescription charges – and about bloody time too! But I guess I am not ready to face what will essentially be nature’s way of telling me I am no longer viable on this planet. That’s the truth, in a nutshell, innit! Darwin would appreciate this honest approach. I think he might declare (if he were brave enough in 1872 to mention all these unmentionables) that the menopause is simply the result of human intelligence allowing us to outlive our biological productivity. Thankfully though, human women have a worth that does not and should not correlate to their ability to reproduce.
Yet still, all this mid-life literature I am receiving from my friends is disconcerting. The menopause is a privilege of getting old that some of my peers never lived to see. It’s totally normal and natural and should be discussed, I know! But it doesn’t mean I want to discuss it. My babies are still small! Ish. Heck, I could even have another…
So why do I have a problem? Maybe it’s that I still feel young. Perhaps it is the fact that I haven’t accepted that my baby-producing years are over. How did I go from three under five plus one, to this? An almost adult, a nine year-old and couple in between. There’s no babyproofing in this house; instead I have hormones, devices and endless psychological battles. THAT right there is why I hate the idea of the impending menopause. Life is more complex now. Toddlers, babies, nappies and coffee mornings are so much simpler than this rollercoaster of teenagerness which can only start going faster.
Maybe I should embrace this new phase. It represents more freedom… there are certainly less sleepless nights and I guess that’s good. I’m free to work, and earn. But… I HAVE LOVED BEING A FULL-TIME MUMMY TO YOUNG KIDS. What a privilege it has been! Yes, there have been stresses. It’s been hard at times, but I’ve adored every minute. And whenever someone mentions that *menopause thingy*, I realise that may all be behind me. And I get sad.
It is so true that time flies – temps fugit indeed – and with the recent experiences of looking round universities for Little Seymour Number One, it has hammered home just how bloody fast these last twenty odd years have gone. It’s almost as if I left the University of Sussex with degree in 1999, and returned in 2021 with a brand new, cloned adult human in tow. Just like that. My brain can’t quite accept it. This is her time, not mine. Her turn.
So why can’t I shake the ambition? The plans? When will I give up dreaming about my future careers? My big breaks? When will I finally work out what it is that I want to do with my life.. grow up?
Probably never. The menopause can come, and the menopause can go. I hope to see my children fly and thrive. But as long as there is breath in my body, I will be daydreaming. I’ll be planning and plotting doing all of the things that have eluded me so far…
Like the Twunt Stones. Last summer, my curiosity got the better of me, and I needed to know what I’d missed out on in the snowy devonian cabin a few years ago. Apparently, massaging felt on to pebbles is cathartic: it’s sensual. You can offload your worries onto them… My generous friend offered up her felt, then let me eat my words and have a go. And the result?
I was aiming for yonic. Instead I got phallic.
Story of my life.
#twuntstones
0 Comments