I’ve been annoyed about turning 50 since my 49th birthday, if not earlier.
When I hit the big 4-0, I could still realistically get away with saying, “Hey, I’ve got half my life ahead of me!”
When the calendar clicked over to “2014,” my dread intensified each month, as May drew closer.
Speaking of “each passing month,” if you’d told me when I was 12 years old that one day I’d be sad about not getting my period, I’d have kicked you in the shins.
I never even used my uterus for its intended purpose, yet the looming prospect of not spotting (pun intended) that reliable signal of youth, fertility (and, yes, usefulness) is bumming me out.
Hell, my now-infrequent strolls down the drug store’s feminine hygiene aisle can bring nostalgic tears to my eyes, and I don’t even go swimming or horseback riding.
Look, I never go to the Toronto Film Festival, but I still want it around, as a sign that I’m not living in Hicksville.
Menopause is my Hicksville.