The Best Kept Secret - I Am (Menopausal) Woman, Hear Me Roar

Last fall my book club, The Happy Bookers, celebrated 10 years of reading together. The book we chose for that anniversary meeting was Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flag.

Our favourite character was Evelyn Couch, an unhappy, menopausal woman who was barely hanging on. We especially identified with her alter-ego, Towanda. When Evelyn channels Towanda, she becomes an angry, take no prisoners, Amazon warrior.

My favourite scene takes place in a parking lot when two teen-age girls steal a parking space from Evelyn. "How can you do that?!" she cries. "Because we're young and beautiful," they laugh. Towanda takes over as Evelyn proceeds to ram their car with hers, all the while manically shouting, "I'm old and I have insurance."

I thought of Towanda recently as my friend W. recounted a little dust-up she'd had with a neighbour. At one point, W. found herself pounding on the neighbour's door shouting, "Don't mess with a menopausal woman!" I won't go into the details but suffice it to say that W. won the battle.

Even mild, mannered Edith Bunker was known to utter a few choice words as she faced her own menopause battles.

Back in my mother's day, they used to refer to menopause as "The Change" and I suspect that had as much to do with mood swings and personality changes as it did with physical changes.

Personally, I'm in awe of the rage and raw power that sometimes well up in women going through menopause. I'm a woman. I know what a powerful force those hormones can be.

I suspect it's no coincidence that that women frequently realize their greatest achievements at this stage in their life.

Go Towanda!

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Middle-Aged Mutant Ninja Eyebrow Hairs

I know, I know. I talk about the physical changes associated with aging way too much. I know there are all sorts of more important things - our parents, our dreams, our RRSP's.

But it's the little things that jump up and smack you in the face.

Consider, for example, my eyebrow hair. Two of them to be exact. I swear that these two have suddenly gotten incredibly long. And they stick out. They remind me of my father's. I'm afraid to pluck them for fear of being left with a gaping hole in the middle of my brows.

Here's another example. Being a modern 40-something woman, I like to look good. I work out - sort of. I go to the basement most days and do a few hand weights, a couple of sit-ups, you get the picture.

So last Thursday found me laying on my side in my Lulu-Lemons doing some leg raises when I happened to glance at my belly. And there it was, hanging down, practically touching the floor. Now, I'm within a normal weight range for my height so the bouncing belly wasn't because I've been scarfing too many chips. It's just gotten dangly or something.

And here's the creepy thing. The same thing happens to the skin on my face. While blow drying my hair recently, I had my head tilted to the side. When I looked in the mirror, I saw an abundance of flesh that seemed to puddle and congeal like cold gravy on a plate.

My friend M-A tells similar tales. She was admiring her new "do" after a trip to the hairdresser this spring when she noticed what she thought was a bit of errant hair dye on her cheek. She got a wash cloth and gave it a little scrub. Nothing happened. She added soap and rubbed harder. No different. After five full minutes of scrubbing she finally realized that it was an age spot and it wasn't ever coming off.

They say the devil is in the details and I'm beginning to see that it's true. The trick, I guess, is to not notice the details. And that shouldn't be too hard since my eyes seem to be going on me too.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Generations

I read an article in the Globe & Mail this week about the trend among young mothers to hire night nurses to help with their newborns. No night feedings for these new moms. After all, they need their sleep. One young mother complained that she had no idea how tiring it was going to be – the baby actually wanted to feed every two hours and she was exhausted.

Well duhhh . . . What did you think it was going to be like?

In my day, we all walked around like zombies, leaking breast milk and wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. It was a right of passage and the tougher it was, the better our bragging rights at the playground.

The whole thing got me thinking about how things change from one generation to the next.

When my eldest daughter was four weeks old, an older neighbour advised me to cook up some egg for her. “Mash it up and feed it to her. I did it with my children. Helps them sleep so you can get some things done around the house.”

My own father spoke with deep respect for the women of his homeland – Ukraine – who, according to him, gave birth in the fields, scooped the baby into a bundle on their backs and barely missed a beat as they harvested the next stock of grain.

I think Dad may have gotten some the finer points wrong but it made my six months of maternity leave seem like a vacation at Club Med by comparison.

Maybe each generation does get a little softer than the one that’s gone before.

I’m reminded of my 86 year old neighbour at our cottage. A few years after she and her husband retired up north, her husband passed away. She carried on with their vision and has lived alone on our lake for more than 20 years.

If you were to drop in on her any time of day, any day of the year, you would find her perfectly turned out in matching sweater and slacks, sporting pearls and with hair carefully coiffed.

During a particularly bad storm at the cottage last summer that saw multiple tornado's touch down, she was snug and content, with generator purring, while she watched the Blue Jays on T.V. When the noise from the wind outside grew so loud that cottagers described it as a train passing overhead, she took out her hearing aids so she could concentrate on the game.

If you were to compare her to me at the cottage, you would learn that I’m lucky if I can throw on something clean, let alone matched; if our power goes out you’ll find me snug and content at the corner restaurant in town; and every time I hear a raccoon scratching around outside, I immediately think it’s a bear and threaten to sell the place.

If my neighbour knew these things about me, I’m sure she would say, “Well duhhh . . . What did you think it was going to be like?”

The Best Kept Secret Blog - I Can See Clearly Now (As Long As I Stand On My Head)

During university, I was given an old black and white T.V. set that didn’t work very well. With my non-existent student income I couldn’t afford cable. Consequently, decent reception was a challenge. I did find however that if I stood in a certain spot on the floor and leaned to the left, the picture seemed to improve. Such were the contortions I had to go through in order to see anything.

I was reminded of that T.V. and my desperate antics this week as I contemplated my mid-life friends and our eyes.

Last weekend my husband and I had another couple up to our cottage. The most coveted possession that weekend was not the hammock. It was not the latest copy of Cottage Life. It was not the only life jacket on the boat that fit properly. No. The most prized possession was the dollar store pair of reading glasses we keep on the windowsill in the kitchen.

All weekend our lively conversations about politics, work and life were interspersed with the words, “Where are the glasses?”

This was minor in comparison to what I go through in the mornings in order to wear mascara and dry my hair. If I wear my contact lenses, I can’t focus on anything close and consequently, can’t see my eyelashes well enough to properly apply mascara. But, if I don’t wear my contact lenses, I can’t focus on things at a distance which I need to do in order to properly style my hair.

Until I worked out an elaborate system of make-up, contacts, hair, there were many a day I left the house with: a) eye make-up reminiscent of Tammy-Faye Baker’s; b) a hair-do reminiscent of the bride of Frankenstein’s; c) both.

I know I’m not the only one who has these issues. An acquaintance told me recently about trying mono-vision contact lenses after bi-focals didn’t agree with her.

One lens is for distance – things like driving or walking around. The other one is for close-up - things like reading or threading a needle. The brain is supposed to be able to adjust so that the wearer naturally relies more or less on one lens as needed.

After walking into three walls, having to close the distance eye in order to read anything and almost side-swiping a delivery truck on the 401, she decided to give them up.

I suspect our efforts at adaptation won’t end any time soon. I strongly recommend we all begin developing the “knowing smile” for when our hearing starts to go yet we want to appear as if we’re following the conversation.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Peer Pressure

“Look at my forehead” she commanded. “It’s perfect.”

We all looked.

Sure enough, her forehead was smooth, unlined and fresh.

The “she” in question was Paula Begoun, author of “Don’t Go To the Cosmetic Counter Without Me.” Ms. Begoun was speaking to 100 or so women at a recent event sponsored by the Baycrest Women’s Auxiliary. Before telling us which face creams were worth our money (Neutrogena) and which were not (Boots No. 7), she shared a little about her recent adventures with Botox.

I had to admit that I felt a tad envious. And, if the truth be told, pressured. Like the bar was being raised yet again. If I didn’t jump on the modern cosmetic enhancement bandwagon, it would be tantamount to letting myself go.

Of course, this wasn’t the only band wagon making its way around the track.

I thought of a discussion I’d had at school Christmas concert a few years back. Sitting beside another mother from the school, I noticed her hair was darker than it had been the day before.

“You look good M. Have you done something to your hair? I enquired.

“I couloured it. I was the only woman in my peer group who had grey in her hair. Look around, there’s not a single woman here who has grey hair.”

Sure enough, she was right. Of all my acquaintances over 40, save two, none of us sport grey hair.

Only our hair dressers may know for sure but I strongly suspect all of my friends have regular dates with Miss Clairol.

The results indicate our efforts are paying off.

A friend of mine recently attended her 25th high school reunion. She was struck by the difference between the men and the women. The guys all looked like you would expect a middle-aged man to look. A little (or a lot) heavier, balding, sagging in the cheeks. The women on the other hand, looked amazing. Like they had collectively made a deal with the devil and had barely aged in 25 years.

Now, the easiest thing would be for me to just stop. I could declare, “Do what you will but I’m going to let my roots grow out, wear pants with an elastic waist and chuck all my makeup.” But I don’t. I want to look my best the same as the next woman and I probably won’t stop until she does.

But I do wonder where and when things are going to end.

I have visions of us all in nursing homes, our collagen injected lips curled around a straw as we savour our liquid diet. I see our jet black hair blowing in the breeze as we wheel about with our walkers. Maybe then, when our pension cheques no longer cover the cost of chemical peels, we’ll be able to agree to stop the insanity.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Stuff For Women Like Us

Younger women get a disproportionate amount of attention paid to them these days. Especially if they are pregnant, new mothers or mothers of young children. Rarely does a week go by when I don't read or hear about some new product aimed at making their lives easier.

Expectant couples are encouraged to go on "babymoons" - romantic, last vacations before the baby arrives. Nursing mothers who've invested in a Milkscreen device can relax and enjoy that glass of wine knowing they can screen their breast milk for alcohol before juniors next feeding. And moms of toddlers can feel good about their parenting skills by offering their little ones hours of creative fun with a large, plain brown box from Karton Kreations.

Now maybe it sounds like sour grapes on my part but why haven't marketers come out with trendy items like these for us 40 plus women? In the spirit if equality, I propose our own wish list of products and services that celebrate this stage of our lives.

1. Meno-Slippers In her blog (www.mymenopauseblog.com), Sue Richards shares tips and tricks for those of us who find ourselves with a closet full of menstrual supplies that we no longer have any use for. My personal favorite are the Meno-Slippers made from four maxi pads and decorated with tampon tassels.

2. Flash Memory Can't remember your eldest child's name? Forget what to call common household items? Now you can get past those embarrassing short-term memory slips with this set of flash cards. Each set contains labelled pictures of over 100 common items. When your memory fails you, simply flip through the cards for a matching picture and read the label. The set comes with several blank cards that allow you to attach pictures of family, friends and colleagues.

3. A Room of Her Own This is a large brown paper box that comfortably fits one adult woman. It comes equipped with pocket organizers that hold books, magazines and up to three bottles of wine. (Order today and as a bonus offer, you will receive a free corkscrew.)

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Me and My Memory

"Forgetting, misplacing, repeating could be early signs of Alzheimer's" explained a recent advertisement.

Hmmm. . . These could also be signs of the rapid onset of middle age.

Case in point. In the last two months I have: searched the pantry and refrigerator for the ketchup bottle before finding it accidentally placed among the cleaning supplies; reamed out the painter for not returning my calls only to be reminded that we had indeed spoken and I had booked him to come on Friday; spent two minutes trying to remember for the word for "plate".

I get mixed messages when I ask my fellow Baby Boomer friends if this happens to them. Friends at the trailing edge acknowledge similar problems but laugh it off and dismiss it to living a busy life.

Friends at the leading edge forget the question.

It reminds me of a couple I know who went to a resort in Cuba for March break. A friend of the wife's traveled with them and both women happened to be going through menopause.

As the husband recounted the trip, he told of disjointed dinner conversations. Neither woman could completely articulate a thought because she would forget the words for things. Luckily, when one forgot, the other was able to chime in.

If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes two or three middle-aged women to maintain a dialogue.

Luckily I have my children to help me. We've developed a system for when I have a memory slip.

For example, when I say "Go wash your hands. It's time for . . . What do you call it?" they try to respond with the appropriate noun. "Dinner!" they cry. It's like a little game to them. Guess the word that mommy's mind just can't grasp.

I try not to get too bent out shape by the whole thing. I tell myself that this is normal for women my age. But I do hope the situation corrects itself before too long. If things get much worse, I won't be able to remember. . . What do you call it?" "Beans!"