Dropping the filter

Just give it a few minutes.

Wherever women of a certain age gather, niceties are exchanged. Families inquired after. Outfits complimented. Then, it happens.

Someone makes a comment…about feeling tired, or a random sense of irritation, or the temperature of the room. Looks are exchanged. Filters are dropped. And suddenly, everyone is weighing in on their chronic insomnia, random chin hairs with the tensile strength of steel, or the roiling knot of undirected rage that seems to exist just under the surface of their chest. Oh, and breast tenderness…don’t get me started on boobs.

That moment—when perimenopausal, menopausal, and post-menopausal women get real and unleash what’s really going on—is incredibly freeing. You don’t have to pretend that you didn’t want to scream when you had to clean food out of the sink drains for the 8,000th time last week. Or that you aren’t exhausted by the constant influx of Instagram ads touting the latest under-eye concealer as miraculous—you know that you’re still going to look like a panda regardless of what you rub under you orbs. You don’t have to pretend that your brain fog is so bad that last week you forgot the subject of an email WHILE YOU WERE WRITING IT.

And the RAGE. When you hear that charges have been stayed against Peter Nygard and it’s an insult to all survivors. When women in the States are forced once again into back-room abortions, but no one in the Republican party gives a shit about supporting mothers or children. Maybe that’s why women manifest mid-life heart attacks differently—it’s not a myocardial infarction, it’s the moment that seething, spiky clump of menopausal frustration hits critical mass and explodes outwards, like that Alien chestburster. Except it happens invisibly…a thousand times a day, and when the fury explodes, no one can see it, because you push it back in, and swallow, and keep on fucking going. Often, there is no outward sign that we nearly went supernova—maybe a small hitch in our breath, or a slow blink. And then…on with the day.

Knowing that you are not alone if feeling like your brain is melting out of your ears is an incredible relief. The women in the group lean forward, like they are sharing forbidden secrets. “I’m 50 years old and breaking out like a fucking teenager!” “I can barely move my arm and my physiotherapist won’t even consider frozen shoulder.” “I’m trying so hard to be nice to everyone, because I know that if I say what I’m really thinking? I’m going to be called DIFFICULT.”

You know what? Fuck it. Let’s start saying it out loud. Let’s demand the health care we deserve. Let’s speak up in meetings. Let’s run for office and stop this political insanity. Let’s wear red lipstick even if it seeps into the cracks of our drying, wrinkly lips. Let’s stop wasting time trying to contour our faces—instead, let’s use that extra time to text a friend, walk in the garden, or apply for a master’s. You want me to dress for my archetype? How should I dress if I’m a hormonal, furious, sweating, extraordinary, caustic, and exhausted woman? How about I don’t really care what my archetype is?

Let’s embrace being middle-aged and fucking fabulous—full of life, and cackling sarcasm, and deeply empathetic wisdom. Get loud. Be difficult. Wear heels if you want, or Docs, or flats. Be you—and know that you are ENOUGH.