Menopause Isn’t a Greek Island

It’s sort of like a Fyre Fest of female hormones.

Photo by Simon Rae on Unsplash

Menopause showed up like an evil witch toting her magic spell — not in the form of a poison apple, but a big goblet of Chianti instead. Poof, just in time for my 40th birthday, I went from easy-to-get-pregnant princess to non-ovulating ogress. Much like Fiona in Shrek, I missed the twenty-four hour window to shape shift back to my former self, and woke up like this instead. Yep, I stayed an ogress.

I didn’t miss my period really (I mean, who would), but it was odd not to have it, and also not be pregnant. It just didn’t happen. No more PMS cravings for greasy pizza, red wine, and chocolate. No more buying tampons and pads. (Well, at least until my two daughters get their periods, and as luck would have it, one of them already has.) No more counting back the days from the last period, figuring out when it’s going to happen again. No more pouring hydrogen peroxide on bedsheets to get out blood stains.

It’s a different place, this island of Menopause. It’s sort of like a Fyre Fest of female hormones. You get there thinking it’s going to be so awesome, no more bleeding, no more cramps, you’ll go commando in a white sundress with a piña colada in hand. Then you arrive early to the beach wearing a floral mumu to hide your middle age spread, step on a jellyfish…