A letter to the menopause

Dear Menopause,

Why can’t I just cure you with a Porsche? Not that I could afford one, but right now I’d rather define myself with a flashy red car than run away from my date to stuff paper towels under my armpits in the bathroom… although I admit that with this one, I’m still on the fence as to whether I’d rather go back to the bar or just home. But that’s another topic!

Right now, I don’t feel the need to let someone get close to me. And to be honest, I suspect you have something to do with that.

I know that I need to embrace you, you new phase of life, to celebrate myself for all that my body has done for me. With my body, my temple of purity. But quite frankly, no thank you! I won’t accept that. That’s it.

Dear Menopause, I’m breaking up with you!

I never wanted kids, I just never felt the need. Nobody understood. “Later,” they said, “Later you’ll be glad that you did it.” Later is now and I’m glad that I didn’t listen to them. My life is mine and mine alone. Children are wonderful, but just not for me. That’s why I’ve always had a fractured relationship with my reproductive organs and everything that they bring every month, or rather what they allow. And now the end is supposed to look like this? That this “aunt” who always shows up invited properly demolishes the apartment the last time around?

Not with me. My life is mine. I’m going to scale this mountain too and nothing is going to hold me back. I’m going to muzzle and tie up the “aunt” until she finally chooses to leave. Thank God that they grow herbs to deal with annoying aunts…