Musings on Menopause & Naked Hiking

An essay about hormones, grief, and defiance

I have to say that I’ve had quite enough of menopause; that would be putting it mildly.

The other day, a friend and I were discussing the supplements we take and their cost. Thus far, I have been lucky with my health. I even hesitate to write that because it feels like I am poking Fate with a stick, as if the Universe will awaken from a nap and say:

“What’s that you say? Well, let me teach you a lesson!”

And zap! I’ll be struck with lumbago, plantar warts, high blood pressure, or worse. I have been lucky — no high blood pressure, high cholesterol, or diabetes. But menopause? It feels biblical, like one of the seven plagues of Egypt. And because I haven’t been lucky enough to find a doctor who will take my time-of-life symptoms seriously, I invest a small fortune in supplements and some prescription medication every month in order to address depression, anxiety, a cranky digestive tract, insomnia, and wrinkly skin. Half of the supplements address my job-induced stress. If things don’t improve, it might be more economical to just retire.

I’m not a medical professional, but life is too short to be miserable, so I use every tool I can.

Years ago, I travelled to a conference with some teaching colleagues. I was in my thirties at the time and the baby of the bunch. We awoke bright and early and prepared to head down to the free breakfast the conference center was providing when Sharon whipped out her pill boxes. She had two of them, each with seven cubbies. She poured a handful of capsules from the two “Saturday cubbies” and began knocking them back with the hotel room coffee. I gasped as I counted eleven pills in her first handful.

“Oh my God. What are all of those? Are you sick?”

“They’re supplements. This one is for my muscles and bones. This one is vitamin D. That one is for brain health. This is vitamin C, because I feel a cold coming on. This is a collagen pill…”

She continued to recite them as she swallowed the second handful. I remember thinking that she was neurotic. Now? Well, not so much. Yes, twenty-two supplements is a bit excessive. But I have more empathy now for Sharon. I get it.

Missing and Mourning

Another friend of mine has been in mourning since her menopause onset. She misses her cycle. She misses her supple skin. She misses sleeping the whole night through. She misses her mental health. Her body feels alien to her. I get this, too.

I am startled by my reflection in the shop windows I pass as I walk my dog. I have avoided full-length mirrors since menopause has reared its ugly head, because I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. When did I become my mother? When I look at pictures of myself from seven years ago, I can’t believe the changes. I feel like I’m in that old Disney movie, “Freaky Friday,” when the mother and daughter inhabit each other’s bodies.

And, I’m convinced that my hair isn’t as thick as it used to be, and I miss my metabolism.

Acceptance or Defiance?

On Instagram, I’ve discovered a host of menopausal women who seem to be embracing the changes. They’re sleek, silver-haired goddesses whose jeans still fit and whose hips don’t hurt. They’re still wearing three-inch heels, damn it, so they must have magic hips and knees. Even in menopause, there are unattainable ideals.

I have a couple of militant friends who have literally said, “Fuck you!” to those ideals. They’ve stopped wearing make up and coloring their hair. They get angry at the very notion of dieting, and are hostile when anyone mentions calorie control and weight gain. They stand firm with flat, graying hair and untweezed eyebrows and proclaim that they are perfect, just as they are. And they are. I understand their reactions, too.

Another hashtag I follow is #silverdisobedience. It cracked me up when I first found it, as if aging is an act of rebellion. After I got over my initial amusement, it intrigued me. When you really think about it, how we choose to age can be rebellious. Another friend, let’s call her “Amy,” celebrated menopause with her friends by holding croning ceremonies. Crone is a term often associated with old women, and in some mythology, the archetype represents women who return to their authentic selves.

Amy and her friends congregate in the desert on full moon nights and dance naked around a fire. Sometimes, they hike naked and drive home afterward to sip on spiked ice tea as they sit around in their robes. I get texts from her in the dead of night (her time zone is 3–4 hours behind mine) proclaiming that once again, they didn’t get pulled over by the police. For years, every time I saw a newspaper report about someone getting arrested for flashing or indecent exposure, I’d send her the clipping. I even went so far as to write a fake newspaper article about a gang of Tucson teachers who were arrested for stripping in the desert and howling at the moon.

Most importantly though, I wonder if they have vinyl upholstery in their vehicles. If so, don’t they stick?

I understand their rebelliousness, their shirking of societal norms. In a way, they are claiming some of their power. They dance, stretch marks and pendulous breasts bared, and they revel in the way the desert night’s coolness hits their skin, and how they feel radiant in the moon’s rays. They get drunk on dares and drink.

I guess there’s a continuum of menopausal experiences. There’s angst and anger, despair and defiance, and joy and freedom. And I find that I’m like one of those dancing dots that bounces above the lyrics of the old-timey sing-a-long songs at the drive-in movie theater. I ping-pong from one emotion to the next, and back again. Maybe someday, I’ll feel like myself again. If not, then I hope I’ll be able to embrace the new woman in town.

P.S. She won’t ever be naked and howling at the moon, but there are a myriad of ways to be disobedient. Wink. Wink.

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