The Mourning After

  Do we mourn when we reach menopause?

Should we mourn?  Or is that too selfish.

I believe there is probably a mourning of some sort that we owe to ourselves.

Some grief for losing what we once were; sadness for what we are becoming.

I think there should be a form of bereavement counselling for this new stage of our lives; where we say goodbye to the old "us" and hello to a new "us".

Because menopause, coupled with a recent study which pinpoints the ages 44 and 60 as when we age the MOST, is a slam dinger of a time.

Sixty brings with it the most aging of our bodies, AND menopause, i.e., hormone loss, and all the etceras that go with that.

It is a double whammy of an insult. 

Case in point.

My new double chin.

I realize I am being vain and am allowing myself permission to be vain.

I first noticed it when I caught my reflection in the mirror while I was speaking on my cellphone the other day:  there it was, a double chin.

And it's not just the double chin.

There's a slackened jawline now too.

Right alongside those jowls which seem to be softening, and those deep ridges forming on both sides beside my mouth.

I notice all those signs of aging in any photos these days.

Needless to say, selfies are a now thing of the past.

As are all photos of me that I have a choice in being taken.

It just kind of suddenly happened.

I began noticing that I don't look like myself anymore.

Not the me I have been used to prior to my sixties.

As Aerosmith sang, "All those lines on my face getting clearer."

I had been granted the gift of being photogenic throughout my life.

And now that gift is wanting to be returned.

Oh sure, if the angle is right (from above) and the lighting is good (filling in all the lines) I can pass in a decent enough photo.

But that's a lot of extra effort now, I am noticing, when before it used to be so easy.

I am very grateful my hair is still great, with a few sparse unruly greys sprouting out here and there.  But for the most part it is still a strawberry blond, although deeper now, almost auburn.  

The hair on my arms and legs has long since gone.  And my eyebrows seem unwilling to become their usual bushy selves after being waxed.  The last time I had them tinted I did not need a tweezing of any kind.  Hopefully my eyelashes hold out.  

The changes that are coming with age are not lost on me.

I notice the stiffness and slight aches and pains each and every day.

I need reading glasses constantly, and now prefer to wear prescriptions for watching television and grocery shopping.

The rest of my body is on a slippery slope.  

Gradually gaining weight, the heaviest I have ever been, topping out at nearly 150 pounds.  And yet I don't FEEL heavier, fat even.  My backside is actually becoming flatter, after an entire lifetime of being shapely.  The tradeoff is that the weight is gathering around my tummy.  It's making it difficult to zip and button my jeans.  It adds a whole new dimension to my profile.  It's unbecoming.  And yet I seem powerless to do anything about it.  

I have read that it's a post-menopausal "meno-belly," something that happens to every woman after the estrogen stops burning our belly fat for us.  

And despite thinking I just need to cut back on calories, my body still needs what it needs energy wise to get through the day without a headache.

I still find I need the 30 points or so per day that the Weight Watchers Plan says I am consuming.  (I joined WW in the '90's and it helped me lose weight then.  I still count my points every day to ensure I don't overdo it.)

I limit myself to one cookie OR one chocolate per day, IF they are in the house.

Granted, it's me that buys them and sometimes I do resist the temptation.

I have STOPPED having a small bowl of potato chips every afternoon, as I was wont to do last summer.  And incredibly, I have no cravings or appetite for them anymore anyway.  A miracle, as there was a time when I was positively ADDICTED to that little serving of salt and fat.  Well, my arteries are hopefully grateful, if not my waistline.

But I think I will just have to resign myself to the fact that this is the new me.

The new, curvier, me.

The mature model.  The not quite yet outdated design.

All my life I have been blessed with a slim body; in high school it was perfect.  My nickname was "Ten Bum", a nod to the movie "Ten" which was out at the time.

I soared a little in my late-20's when living alone saw me consume copious quantities of bread, butter and honey, just because I COULD.  

But that excess weight soon went.  It didn't take much effort, because I had youth, a good metabolism and estrogen on my side.

Now, however, it is a different story.

Although I do yoga every day, climb stairs, lift arm weights, and try to get a walk in or the equivalent every day, it is still not enough to shift the excessive weight needle on the damn scales.

I realize I may just have to resign myself to my new body shape; to just accept the brand new Sharon 2.0, belly fat and all.

It is not that much, I tell myself.  I see MUCH bigger people out there every day.

I still have a bit of a waist, if I look closely enough.

I am still able to move, get out of bed, touch my toes(!), get up and down off the floor and sofa, climb the stairs, do my chores, get in and out of the car, etc.

I have so many blessings to be thankful for, that worrying about a little extra weight around the middle seems a little petty.

And perhaps it is protective, to some degree.

I subscribe to the thought that it is better to have a little bit of extra padding than not enough; malnutrition is not a fashion statement, it is a cry for help.

And so here I go.  Into that good night of the age of 64, to infinity and beyond.

I will try to turn a blind eye to my bulbous middle; try not to look at myself sideways in the full length mirror.  It is very unflattering at best.

And say "so long" to my slimmer, younger, wrinkle-free self.

And give myself permission to mourn a little as well as I let her go.