My friend Paul lobbed over, armed with a bottle of rosé and a question. Was I menopausal?
Sweet Betty White in a three-man canoe, yes. That particular River Styx has been crossed. The 3am banging heart, murderous thoughts and unpredictable sentimentality are done, on paper anyway.
Are we ready to have difficulty conversations? Credit: iStock
Fantastic, said Paul. Need you to be a menopause coach for a mate. Talk him through what you know. I’ll ring him now, put him on speaker.
For the next hour, a male stranger grilled me on midlife emotions, expectations, bloating, libido. Well, stranger not stranger. He turned out to be an Australian singer who is always high on our summer playlist rotation. Hopefully, there’s a hit to be written about tamponless homes.
Anyway. My famous Padawan’s mission in finding a woman to talk about The Change with was heartening. His partner is mired in peri-menopausal quicksand and while he’ll never experience or understand what she’s going through, he wants to be an active wingman rather than hand-wringing confused bystander.
Google couldn’t give him what he’s hunting for: insider knowledge from an old stager. He knew his stuff though (“HRT – yes or no? Should I ignore mood swings or does that look like I don’t care?”) and we hashed over tips and tricks that helped me and my marriage survive the whole circus.
It’s hard to imagine men a couple of decades ago even realising anything was up with their womenfolk, let alone proactively supporting their peri-menopausal partners.
When we hung up, it felt like an unusual connection in a darkening kitchen was a tiny sign society is on the right path. One where everyone takes responsibility for their stuff. Where we take action instead of keeping our fingers crossed that the magical universe will step in and step up, or someone else will take the load because hey, it’s their deal, not mine.
That message was the big takeaway from a session I had with a psychologist a few weeks ago, too. The grim year when dancing on command multiple times a day was part of work KPIs had crept back into my head, a spreading inkblot of anxiety. Hyper vigilant, tired and mainlining sugar, I ran up the white flag.
