Connie
‘Do my armpits smell?’ Daisy lifts her arm and sticks her pit in my face before I have time to recoil. The look of horror on my face probably saves me from answering the question. She reaches into her handbag and digs out a packet of wet wipes. We have been friends for thirty-five years and I’ve provided her ex-convict husband with a (false) alibi when her abuser was mowed down in a hit and run (not a word of a lie, not even an exaggeration, but that’s another story), still I think shoving her sweaty pits in my face is a step too far. ‘I’ve found I’m so much riper since I’ve hit the menopause,’ she adds.
My friends Daisy and Rose love talking about their menopause, but then they loved talking about their pregnancies and births; I distinctly remember a phase when stetch marks, ripped vaginas and leaky breasts were the topics of choice. I tried to have my three girls as quietly as possible. I don’t mean I didn’t scream during labour. Despite being quick to embrace an epidural, I yelled out so many expletives in such extraordinary combinations that at one point during Fran’s birth, Luke said he felt the need to offer the midwife earplugs. But my unseemly, painful experience resulted in three perfect little beings, and that is the bit I’ve always focused on. Talking about bodies is so dull.
I like to talk about minds.
And feelings.
And that’s the thing. I can’t tell if my crazy-lady feelings are the result of my age and fluctuating hormones or just a lifelong character trait. For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted impossible things. I tried to explain this to my friend Lucy, she’s not interested in emotions at all, but does like healthy debate.
‘Like what sort of impossible thing? She challenged.’
‘Like to be different from myself.’
‘We all want that.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Well no, I don’t’ Lucy admitted. ‘But I’m damned near perfect.’
‘And men don’t.’
‘No,’ she conceded.
‘And young people don’t seem to. I suppose that’s progress. But I’m in that generation that always believes I should be better, or trying harder, or doing more or just in some way different from what I am.’
‘Maybe it’s not a bad thing.’
‘What, you think I should be different? That’s not great, coming from my best friend.’
‘Lucy laughed, ‘No, I mean it’s pretty good that you are always improving and striving. It’s worked. You are doing fine.’
‘Fine? You’re saying there’s still room for improvement.’
‘No, you are saying that. I like faulty you. You are absolutely fine. Maybe a little needy.’ She winked and I wasn’t sure whether to feel comforted or not. ‘Try not to overthink it, Connie. Don’t look for problems. They tend to knock at the door anyway.’
I try to stay in the moment and think about Daisy right now. I am aware that she is out of her comfort zone and only attending this yogi retreat because I need the company. She’d rather be eating the last forlorn chocolates in the Quality Street tub or listlessly flicking through insta to see what’s on sale but she’s here with me, being supportive. For Christmas, Luke bought me the two places at this yoga retreat assuming I’d bring along Flora, who is a fellow yogi and has in the past come on various day retreats with me. We’ve happily chanted and stretched our way through a number of sound baths in the past. It’s one of my favourite things to do, search for a feeling of zen with her at my side, however we’re not in a very comfortable space right now so I asked Daisy to come along instead. I just told Luke I didn’t want Fran to come along because I wasn’t sure incense burning was good for the baby. I don’t know whether he believed me or not, but he pretended to. Knowing when to probe and when absolutely not to, makes a good marriage.
Daisy probably isn’t interested in a day of practicing vinyasa, somatic or kundalini yoga and she’s sweating profusely with nerves before the practices even begin. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of deep love and want to hug her. I resist because if I hug her, she’ll ask about my hormones. Everyone talks about hormones now, sometimes it seems mid-life women talk about little else. Honestly, I’d like to sit in a café drink my disgusting ginger gunk without one of my friends suggesting that their headaches, stress, forgetfulness, sleeplessness (or any of about another hundred aliments) are because they are perimenopausal or menopausal. We seem to have forgotten that we were exhausted and stressed when we were younger too. I’m all for awareness but now I’m aware of how bloody awful menopause can be, I think it’s reasonable to talk about something else from time to time. Let’s become aware of literacy levels in the UK, the worrying rise of extremist political parties in Europe and the lack of rights women and the LGBTQ communities have throughout the world. Let’s talk about that and tackling health issues that lead to cancer or let’s talk about how we can re-invigorate our highstreets. To be fair to my friends whenever I say as much, they agree and for a while we all discuss something that we’ve seen reported by the BBC, even if we’ve only seen it reported on our Instagram feeds. The problem is the conversations often peter out after about ten minutes. Invariably we can’t remember the names of the people or even countries in the news and conversations go along the lines of.
‘You know who I mean. You do. The little woman who looked a bit like that weird married couple who pretended the wife was a schoolboy.’
‘What?’
‘Oh you mean the Krankies.’
‘Yes! That’s it. Well, she looks like her.’
‘Who does?’
‘The one, I’m talking about. The politician who is likely to be investigated.’
‘For what?’
‘Oh, I forget.’
Then we all laugh and have a conversation about whether we should order a second glass of wine. We rarely do. There’s always driving, the hangover, the weekly unit total to consider. It’s just not worth it anymore. We used to wonder whether a second or third bottle was over doing it.
I sigh, turn to Daisy and say, ‘Everyone stinks at yoga, Daisy. Don’t worry about it.’
