Do One Derek

Get ready...I'm about to get ranty mcranty from ranty town, postcode RAGE1.

There I was scrolling the other night before I slapped on the estrogen, inhaled the magnesium, swallowed a progesterone tablet, necked a couple of anti-anxiety, gulped a bit of Vitamin D and there he was...

A bloke hiding in a cupboard with a mic, whispering like he was reporting from enemy lines, calling himself a “survivor of the menopause.” Doing a bit for the algorithm. Gifting other husbands the things he wished he’d known to survive this life stage.

How I laughed as I watched the husband snore away in his own little survival zone. And before I unleash my fury, I know there are plenty of genuinely brilliant partners muddling through and trying to be decent etc etc.

And I know us women already laugh about menopause. We are Olympic-level at that. We laugh in WhatsApp groups, over a brew, in the gaps between meetings.

We joke about hot flushes that arrive like a jump scare. Brain fog that makes you forget your own postcode. Way too emotional - all the moods. Not knowing if you are freezing or boiling or somehow both.

Dark humour is how we cope. What we do not always say out loud is what sits underneath the jokes.

Feeling vulnerable. Overwhelmed. Anxious for reasons you cannot quite explain. Lost in your own head. Frustrated at not recognising yourself. Running close to burnout while still showing up, still leading, still being the capable one.

Most women I work with are already judging themselves relentlessly during this life stage.

Who even am I anymore.
Why can’t I concentrate like I used to.
Why does everything feel harder.
Why can everyone else cope better than me.

So we mask it. We minimise it. We laugh it off. Because admitting how much this stage can take out of you still feels risky. Risky to be seen as too emotional. Risky to be seen as unreliable. Risky to be seen as less than.

And then enter stage left the manopause survivors whispering their woes. When it becomes a running joke about surviving us, it quietly becomes another stick we beat ourselves with.

Another layer of self-monitoring. Another reminder to manage ourselves better. Another subtle message that we are a lot. (Spoiler menopause and this life stage is a lot).

It pissed me right off. I know there’s lots of hilarity around this - and I know we need to be able laugh with our partners etc but what I wish would happen more is that our partners actually took the time to understand it, to read about it, to try and grasp it so they knew what we were carrying. Before finding the thing to laugh at to generate more likes on the bloody gram.

I am very pro laughing our way through hard things. Women have always done that brilliantly. What I care about is the narrative.

Humour that helps us cope is different from humour that asks us to keep shrinking, smoothing and apologising for a life stage that can genuinely knock us sideways.

Menopause already asks a lot. Our bodies are changing. Our nervous systems are stretched. Our confidence can wobble even when our capability has never been higher.

So the hilarious manopause survivors get right on my wick. This is our turf Derek, you go and look for something that rights in front of you.

Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep and will laugh along in the morning. Or maybe I’ll get even more ranty.

(Picture taken from the fabulous Riot Women. I would feel seen, except I can’t sing, don’t have a guitar, want to throttle the husband when he plinky plunks on his and I’m on the couch with the dog staring at me.)

It would appear that the only thing dropping faster than my estrogen levels is my tolerance.

Rant over.

Let’s crack on.