Nope. I did not misspell menopausal. I meant to do that.
I read about something today that made me squint a little and turn my head the way Gertie does when I vacuum the hardwood. Only I didn’t hiss. She usually hisses.
Promposal? The fuck is a promposal?
So, I did an extensive internet search. As long as we agree that “extensive” means “searched Twitter for 30 seconds”.
It appears a promposal is just asking someone to prom in an elaborate way. Like those flash mob marriage proposals. Or at least that is what it looked like during my research.
I’m still bemused by the trend, at least in the Midwest, where prom attendees must show up to their prom venue in an impressive vehicle. When I was in high school, any way you could get to prom that didn’t include getting dropped off by parents was cool. And if your parents did drop you off? Well, shit was what it was.
If we’re embracing promposals, gender reveal showers and marriage proposals which can take up a city block, we should welcome our sisters into cronehood with a menoposal.
I mean, let’s not get all crazy here. We’re not hiring a choreographer and a mariachi band or anything.
A menoposal is an invitation.
No need to RSVP because if you don’t show up, well, then RIP.
To my sisters sliding down the hill into cronehood:
Stop fighting it, for fuck’s sake. You are getting older.
There is nothing wrong with that. I promise.
I’m in no way suggesting you not take care of yourself. You absolutely must.
It’s sobering to have to consider if perhaps replacing ground beef with ground turkey or chicken is in order.
It is sobering to have to alter your work out because neither of your shoulders have been happy with you for years.
But we still have to take care of ourselves. Sometimes, really stupid and annoying changes must take place.
The point is, no matter how much of healthy lifestyle you live, you are still getting older. Embrace it. Railing against it is just wasting your time and in case you haven’t noticed, tick tock.
Don’t freak out too bad if you wake up in the middle of the night and your sheets are damp. And perhaps have a sort of metal smell to them. You just sweated a whole bunch. It’s okay. If you are lucky, it won’t happen all the time. If you’re not? I hope you have a lot of spare sheets.
You will find yourself more willing to speak your mind. Go with that. Just roll with it. It is all good. Well, mostly. Be kind. Always be kind.
Except for bigots. I see no reason to be kind to a bigot. But be careful. Again. We’re not young anymore. We can get away with speaking our mind, but we also can’t run as fast as we used to.
Remember when I said “tick tock” a minute ago? That applies to a lot of things. Whatever it is you wanted to say/write/build/learn/destroy/visit/taste/experience you better get moving. Seriously.
If you haven’t yet made it a practice to be kind to yourself, start doing that.
Keep learning. Keep your mind open.
Do you know what life will be when we’re in our golden years? Different than we expected.
We can bitch about it or we can adapt.
I don’t know about you, but bitching over too many things is exhausting. I’d rather adapt.
We are the elders now.
We can help our younger sisters or we can shake our heads in disapproval.
I’m going to suggest you take the side of the helpers.
Just because we’re not young anymore, doesn’t mean we can’t affect change. We have voices that still matter, even if our skin is crepe-y and our hair is gray.
Never let anyone tell you that your voice doesn’t count anymore.
Welcome to cronehood, where the temperature changes by the minute and sleep is sporadic.
Personally, I love it.
So there, there is a menoposal for all my sisters approaching menopause.
One more note: I wrote about being interviewed by New York Magazine. The article was published in the April 1 edition. I believe the interview is in the print version as well.
Photo courtesy of CongerDesign.