THE LITTLE RED MONSTER

Riding the airport shuttle to the car park, I watched a boy of about 2 or 3 years cling to his mother on the crowded bus. His dad sat only a few seats away but to the boy it might as well have been an eternity. His mom attempted to soothe his anguished cries by deflecting the boy's attention. She pointed out airplanes waiting on the tarmac, a handsome red sports car in the adjacent lane, and tried playing familiar games. When those strategies failed, she reasoned with him in a comforting, assured tone, "They'd be off the bus soon," she said. "In their own car, just the three of them, going home." The boy finally turned away from his distant father and sunk into the security of his mother's lap. His arms clasped around her neck, his head rested on her heart. To fend off further doubt, the mother laid her head upon the boy's soft, blanket of hair, closing the circle, closing the wound.

I got my period twice in one week. Another sign that a phase of my life is coming to an end. (Or a new phase beginning, depending on my mood.) I felt a pang of envy as I watched this mother and child on the bus. Those moments are few and far between for me now; fewer every day. Most of the time I relish the thought of independence - my children's and my own - but at that moment, I mourned it.

I had a dream last night that I went to my hairstylist for a blow-out. As she stroked her fingers through my thick hair, the force of her hands and the dryer whipped chunks of strands onto the floor, their absence exposing irregular, vulnerable patches of scalp.

Isn't it funny how we spend most of our lives dreading our period? Before we get it, the notion of it is overwhelming and frightening. When we get it, we're curled up in tight, fetal positions wishing for the pain to go away. Only during the child-bearing years does it really sink in just what all the suffering is for, and even then, the arrival of the little red monster is still an unwelcome event. Until it's no longer shows up.

Like the schoolboy who had a crush on you, the one you dismissed, the one who became attractive as soon as he looked at someone else, you begin to desire the monster. Because you realize, suddenly, that the loss of it is the loss of a piece of yourself and maybe, if you'd paid more attention, things would have been different.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

I don't say this for reasons that D.T. did; because a loved one is sick or is dying.
My reasons are far less serious.
Nevertheless, coming home today from a visit with my OB-GYN, his words came to mind.
It seems, at 46, my body is signaling me to prepare for the big "M". It comes as no great surprise but hearing it from my doctor gave it gravitas.

Menopause? Really? But I've only just begun to live! Corny, I know, but it's how I feel. I was a late bloomer after a youth pockmarked with depression and a full blown case of PPD following the birth of my son, I have finally come into my own. In my 40's, I'm enjoying life rather than enduring it. I no longer question the roads not taken or wonder about the "what ifs". I'm happy with who and where I am. I'm ready to rock.

But menopause scares me. I fear it will bring with it the dreaded demons of my past and darken the halls that have only recently opened up to the light. My time in the sun has been brief, too brief, but long enough to feel it's warmth and appreciate the difference. I can only hope that when the demons knock, I will no longer find comfort in their company. I want to rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light. I hope that I'm able. I hope that I can laugh and dance and spin my way into the long good night.

40 IS THE NEW 30

Really? Is that what they say? Cause, at 30, I don't remember my mother complaining of crow's feet, hot flashes and incontinence. Truthfully, I don't remember my mother at 30 because I was only 3, but trust me, she didn't talk about these things until she was closer to 50. If our generation is so youthful, so spry, so fountain of youth, then why are all my friends complaining that their bodies have hit the skids? My sister moans that since turning 40 she's had one long, chronic sinus infection and an extra 15 pounds that act like a bad house guest and refuse to leave. A friend complains she has to change out of her cold, sweat-drenched pajamas 2 to 3 times a night. Another one gripes of gray hairs that no amount of artificial color can cover. And when I'm out with the girls we hilariously, like a graceful circle of synchronized swimmers, pull out our reading glasses to read the menus.

Don't get me wrong, my friends and I are no hags. On the contrary, many of us, on a good day, could be labeled as M.I.L.F's. (Okay, maybe only by each other, but HEY, what are friends for??) Most of us eat well, take vitamins, exercise, yada, yada. We do everything most things right but we hit 40 and suddenly it's payback time. We took out high-interest loans on our nubile flesh to afford us a multitude of pleasures, excesses, and stupid mistakes. We deposited these sparkling, wild, and poignant memories into our mental banks to borrow against in our depleted old age. And so the reparations begin. But why should we pay for behaviors or actions that brought us no joy like bad posture, wearing uncomfortable shoes, or bad falls and injuries? That doesn't seem fair. Even having a baby, the most beautiful, natural, life-changing event, takes it's unjust toll when suddenly we can't take a crap without our hemorrhoids popping out or sneeze without streams of pee dribbling down our legs. (This actually happened to me when I cheered too loud after my son shot his first-ever basket and won the game for his team.)

If I only knew then what I know now, I would have appreciated my flat stomach, my strong bladder and my unblemished, silky, smooth hands. I would have learned to love my appearance, make the most of my flaws, rather than be my own worst judge. I would have listened to my OB-GYN and done more kegels!

So what's the point of this post besides sending you all into a depressed tailspin? The point is, whatever they say about 40 being the new 30, let's roll with it. Because when we hit 30, we mourned our 20's, at 40 we mourned our 30's. At 50, I presume we will mourn our 40's. Let's nip it in the bud and not waste any more of our precious time. Dr. Christiane Northrup, author of, THE WISDOM OF MENOPAUSE, describes this phase as an awakening - a time to replay the events of our lives and learn from our mistakes. An opportunity to do the things we've always wanted to do because we are aware that our time is valuable and it is limited.

We can look at this time in our lives as a glass half-empty or a glass half-full. I'm choosing the latter. You?