Essay: Menopause Awareness

John McEnroe’s “You cannot be serious” argument with umpire Edward James, on Wimbledon’s Number One court on Monday, June 22, 1981 in London. Getty Images

Soon after I turned 50, in 2017, I woke up almost every morning to this thought: “This can’t be my fucking life until I die.” 

Very quickly followed by this thought: “What the fuck is wrong with me? Have I turned into one of those women who’s internalised ageism? Since when do I care about getting older? Who the fuck is this?”

Meanwhile, my body sat out the mental back-and-forth like a tennis umpire who’s refereed too many John McEnroe matches.

At least John yelled at the umpire–an acknowledgement of sorts. For most of my life, my body has been an afterthought. It was there to get me through this life–feed it, hydrate it, cruise control it like it was the ugly stepsister to my mind: my crowning achievement, pun fully present.

In the way that those umpires of McEnroe matches knew that histrionics aside, John would eventually have to shut up and play, my body knew my mind would eventually have to shut up and let us talk.