Fuck You Forty! Putting the “Merry” Back into “Perimenopause”

Today we are going to be talking about my lady parts, so to those of you who are not interested in talking about my lady parts I will simply say this: “Bye Felicia – don’t let the sanitary disposal unit flap hit you on the way out”.

I’ve got some delightful reproductive system euphemisms planned for those of you who are voyeuristic or bored enough to stick around, ‘cos today we’re going to put the “merry” back in “perimenopause”.

“Hold up”, I hear the peanut gallery shouting. “There’s NO ‘merry’ in ‘perimenopause’. This headline is not only deliberately misleading, it SUCKS”.

(You think they’re not shouting at me right now? Trust me, they are… I’m friends with a shitload of grammar nerds and I can already hear the squealing pedantry from here. It sounds a lot like the death mewling of a vintage Furby with battery acid corrosion – but nowhere near as charming. I love those furry little bastards)

And, speaking of furry little bastards…

Ladies, I’m gonna say one thing. Love your lady parts, and everything they do (most of which sucks, let’s be real, because I’m not some patchouli-drenched womb-worshipper with an unwavering pro-uterus agenda here).

Love your lady parts, because it can all change in the blink of an eye.

What am I talking about?

Getting Old. Drying Up.

The Attack Of The Crones.

It’s Raining Men… opause.

(FYI I deliberately capitalised all of those improper nouns just to doubly annoy my grammar nerd friends, who are no doubt jamming the pointy ends of several 2B pencils into both eyes as we speak. Suck It Losers Your Loosing This Battle).

Anyhoo, back to my ageing indoor plumbing.

Just a scant few months ago I was humblebragging to my GP about the clockwork precision of my menstrual cycle. This was relevant because we were elbow-deep in a pap smear at the time, and I figured that there’s no such thing as TMI once the speculum has gone in and someone is peering earnestly up the entire length of your wide open vagina. I mean, I’m not the sort of person who just randomly brags to strangers about bodily functions that I have no control over anyway – let’s be clear about that.

Me, my 40 year old uterus and my textbook 28 day menstrual cycle.

BFFs since 1989.

And then it happened. My lady parts betrayed me.

27 – 33 – 27.

Those are not hip-waist-bust measurements.

Those are the lengths of my last three menstrual cycles.

It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to figure out what is happening here. One of the first signs of perimenopause is menstrual irregularity, and I used to be able to set the DVD recorder by my menstrual cycle. I would too. I liked to make sure I scheduled binge-watching sessions of Q&A and anything featuring Mark Latham at peak PMS-times for maximum howling outrage.

So that’s where I’m at. I’m transitioning from mummy blogger to menopause blogger.

In a few short years I have gone from blogging about perineal tears and toddler tantrums to blogging about my erratically-timed menstrual events. I don’t really have anything much to say about this other than, sorry, I forgot what I was going to say anyway but it involved a rambling anecdote from 1997 and me humming the tune from some crusty old song you overheard on Coles Radio the other day.

You young people don’t know how good you’ve got it with your avocado toast and your functioning ovaries and The Facebook and what not. When I was a kid we used to have Vegemite toast. The only books I had were given to me by doorknocking Jehovah’s Witnesses. And my ovaries fired well enough to make a semi-decent human being or two. Now they’re getting ready for retirement, but I’m not ready to let them go.

In my head I’m still twenty years old, but my uterus just applied for a Seniors Card.