Do you mind if we have a little chat around the "M" word? The menopause is a subject that gets ahem'd about a good deal, but not actually talked about much, ever. I find this frustrating. Don't worry, I don't intend to talk about the indelicate biology side of things (although we talk about that far less often than we should as well), but rather the impact it has on self-esteem, self-confidence and our idea of who we are, our sense of self. I have been turning it over in my head since I heard a fairly heated discussion on Woman's Hour on Radio 4. There was unusually – and I see where they were coming from – a man involved in the studio debate. That would have been fine had he not said something to the effect that the changes experienced during menopause are "not profound", which was profoundly … silly. Boy, did we give him a drubbing on Twitter.
I have some sympathy with the poor bloke. If we hardly ever talk about it, it's not really fair to rip someone's ears off for making light of it. And we can be so touchy. We're a bit "the menopause is ours, so hands off, you men", but also slightly: "Help me, I'm have a shocking time with this." Mind you, it is not surprising we don't discuss it because the youth-obsessed, hypersexualised age we occupy makes it difficult to 'fess up to losing the very thing that defines, by today's standards anyway, femininity. On the one hand it's all "Hurrah and thank God that's over" and on the other "Who, or what, am I now?" The Change it certainly is – and not just in the physical sense.
So with your previous identity as a fecund, mysterious and powerfully feminine creature over, it's possible you might feel, as I did, that the style you used to slip on without thinking every morning is also over. It might feel as if the way you look doesn't fit the way you feel any more. And that's aside from the practical issues of shape change, skin change and temperature fluctuation. I'm pretty sure I'm not over-thinking it, because every woman I put this idea to gazes into the middle-distance for a few minutes and then says: "Yes, that's right." It manifests as an uncomfortable sensation that you're in the wrong skin, that something's gone awry and then, suddenly, your confidence seeps out through the soles of your feet and you urgently want to creep away to a secluded corner and have a little cry. It's weirdly disorientating – and a feeling that I'm convinced affects us all, to a greater or lesser degree. I don't buy the "I sailed through it all with nary a hiccup" smokescreen.
Anyway, this is the point at which the wheels can come off your style mojo and you impulse-buy those orange daisy-trimmed dungarees that now live in the dog basket. It's the point at which Per Una (horror!) begins to look appealing – together with frills, ribbons, gingham and puffed sleeves – and you start to look favourably on pastels. Here's my theory: we are trying to compensate on the outside for what we've lost on the inside. It's as if by wearing lilac with a few twiddly bits we can transport ourselves back to a happier, safer, more familiar landscape, and wriggle out of facing up to an awkward transition. It seems cruel that nature flings change at us when change is the last thing we want. But if, despite the fluctuating hormones and hot flushes, it's possible to think clearly, there is an opportunity here for reinvention, renovation and restoration. Our sixth decade and beyond offers a chance to stick two fingers up at those tediously dull clothes collections that manufacturers and advertisers would have us believe are our new post-M-word threads. Who are they to tell us this is what we want? Well, it's another thing I don't buy, and nor should you. I mean, what do they know?
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