Found in my archives, I wrote this piece in 2015:

Ever a vigilant researcher of ideas and somewhat apprehensive about where the new world of peri-menopause may take me, I decided to ask some womenfolk in my world who had been through it what to expect. More specifically, I wanted to know what was good about it. I figured that for every phase of life, there are gifts - if not to receive with ease, then at least to cull through sheer will. As the phase when a woman stops bleeding monthly must herald a new beginning of something worth going through, I wanted to hear what the attributes truly are. 

Maybe I spoke to the wrong women. Maybe they were the ones, such as I had heard, complaining all their lives about what a curse their period/moontime/cycle was. I never understood this, but do not let this separate me from your experience if you are, or were, one of those women. It’s just that I felt despite any mood swings, bloating, and extra-sensitivity, I liked shedding the past month in a viscous, physical, and seemingly practical - if not ritualistic - way. It was as if all month, everything that annoyed the bejeezus out of me had a chance to just flow away and leave me cleansed. Lucky us. Maybe if men shed blood naturally every month, they wouldn’t have to shed the blood of others so often, but this is just a hypothesis born of my hormonal frustration with the messed-up world we live in, and I’m allowed to say it because this blog is borne of my hormones. 

I would always ask women with a positive spin. I’d say, "I’ve heard so many horrible things about menopause. Tell me what good things there are to gain from it. There must be good things". 

The usual response was first a wary glance in my direction, denoting the dangerous territory I was entering, followed by a sigh that settled itself into a confident chest that rested back into her chair as one-who-knows about to tell a significant truth she’s been waiting years for someone to ask. This was the face of seniority and wisdom. I would, at first, feel hopeful. 

Seeming to bypass my direct question, I continually kept hearing the same thing instead. “It will open you up, eat you alive, spit you out, and put you back together, sister. Believe you me”, they almost seemed to whistle while shaking their heads, “you have no idea the hell you’re in for”. 

I would nod. After a respectful silence, I would say, "Yes, but tell me what’s good about it". I seemed to have to repeat this question a number of times. Eventually, I gave up, and aside from reading Susun Weed’s book on menopause (a herbalist with a last name to match), I received little positive reinforcement, so I'm finding my own. And I’m sharing it. 

It’s a mixed bag, yes, and for me, it is my mood that can create an anger in me unknown in former times that is the biggest teacher. 

It was when the ‘spiritual’ chick killed my beloved cat (within a short week of me leaving him in her care in my home) through sheer neglect, complete self-absorption to degrees I didn’t think were even possible and a vapidity of mind that would stagger even the brain damaged themselves, that I got the chance to see just how angry I can actually get. Apparently, I am now able to hit new levels. 

The amount of anger I showered upon this cleavage-parading narcissist was less than half of what I truly felt for her. There were many more extreme measures I was seriously considering, like flying back home and physically throwing her and all of her belongings out of the house while screaming like a banshee. 

I work in the healing arts. "I am not supposed to be angry”. “I am not supposed to swear.” This was all kept to a modicum of decency (read: suppression) prior to peri-menopause. I am no longer afraid to state the obvious, like “Fuck you and your spiritual bypass bullshit”, even if I flower it up when it comes out of my mouth - because those flowers of mine can still pack a punch. 

Peri-menopause is like your toughest Bootcamp Chick whose life mission is to kick your ass into the best shape possible. She does this not because she gives a damn if you can keep the ten to twenty pounds of fat at bay that is forecast you will gain through menopause, but because it’s her job to clear out the shit that’s in the way of you becoming your best now that your hormones are on your side to accomplish this with the maturity you’ve (hopefully) earned, and she’s in charge. 

You do not mess with Bootcamp Chick. To her, maturity has absolutely nothing to do with politeness; it has to do with truth. YOUR truth. And she’s here to find it.

Swearing is another thing that I no longer care about. Bootcamp Chick likes it when you swear because all those unsaid words you never got to say because you were trying to be a lady? Fuck that shit. 

She can be harsh. She can be vulgar. She will stand there screaming in my ear like a drill sergeant. "You plan on taking that like a pussy, bitch?? You stand up for yourself now and all the times you never stood up for yourself, and get this sappy sop of a sow out of your way".

One of Bootcamp Chicks' best lines is, “Get the FUCK out of my way”. She repeats it frequently with gusty emphasis on the pejorative. It is her motto. 

Sometimes when I am lost in thought, putting on lip gloss (I don’t use lipstick anymore because it makes my aging mouth so damn obvious…

“Who gives a shit bitch”?, she yells at me - “Like you care if you all pretty for MEN??? (She gets pretty ganster) Seriously??? Lesson number one - get over it now or suffer needlessly forever bitch. You have strength to build because you have power to unleash you never knew you had”. Bootcamp Chick has a mouth like a truck driver. I would apologize on her behalf, but she would behead me. 

As I was saying before she interrupted, sometimes I get lost in thought while putting on my lip gloss, looking in the mirror. The mind is known to wander in menopause, and I'll get to that later, if I can remember. But sometimes I get lost in the mirror and, without realizing it, Bootcamp Chick has scrawled it across the mirror. ‘Get the FUCK out of my way’. This motto can come in handy, and it can also lose you friends, especially when Bootcamp Chick decides the person who was your friend is worth leaving - why? Because they’re a problem and IN YOUR FUCKING WAY, whereas before they were not. And don’t be fooled. This phrase has every reason to stare you in the face in the mirror if you haven’t written it already, because the primary perpetrator in your way is the face staring back at you. 

Keeping or losing or gaining friends is not Bootcamp Chicks' concern. Her concern is that you say everything you never said and still need to say. Tolerance is not Bootcamp Chicks' M.O. She is there to unleash intolerance you politely kept at bay. If this is not done with the intensity she deems it deserves, it will otherwise seep out here and there, and this would take decades. Bootcamp Chick has no patience for decades, and she wants to make sure you get whipped into shape for important future missions as soon as possible. She cares about you and doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. Just you. That’s her job, and you are her assignment. 

Now I’ve been working on other people’s bodies for over twenty years as a shiatsu practitioner, to give it a title, and I’ve worked on perhaps thousands of bodies by now. I remember working on women in menopause when I was nowhere near that age, and one after another, their bodies kept saying the same thing: “I am filled up and aching because I have so many things I never said”, so I knew that’s part of the process and yet, I’m still surprised to find myself here, simply because I really thought I always said what I felt. I’m bold, I’m upfront. I won’t say it (usually, I try my best) behind your back if I haven’t said it to your face. Surely there was little hidden away I didn’t say, but not so much…surely?

This is the moment where Bootcamp Chick throws back her head and emits a haunting, guttural laugh. A sadistic joy she seems to confess as she licks her lips and swivels her head exorcist style back in your direction. 

“Oh no”, she smiles, “We’ve only just begun, and I have the key to your closets of suppression”. 

...One more thing I learned the other day is how helpful Bootcamp Chick can be when working out. 

I have learned that the best way to literally squeeze out the hormones that are cranky is to stretch, do yoga or cardio. On the yoga mat I often run into Pajama Pants Chick, you know, the one who sits on the couch and just wants some wine or a joint or some junk food, and she whines when I do yoga. “It’s haaaaarrrrd”, she yawns, “stop this immediately,” and she makes it very difficult to get through class at times, and reminds me when I want to go to class again how stupid it is to do in the first place. 

Bootcamp Chick has this one down. When I can tell that my hormones are surging and I want to remember things of the past that still piss me off and get pissed off all over again, I know I need to get to a yoga class. Pajama Pants Chick has to run behind me to catch up, all out of breath, because Bootcamp Chick has me by the ear and is dragging me to class, so there’s not a thing anyone can do. 

Once I’m on the mat, Bootcamp Chick has me PUSHING myself. I can’t work hard enough. I chataranga and spring off the floor into warrior pose like a ninja on a rooftop. I sweat from head to toe. I have been teaching stretch classes for so many years that while my body is twice the age of many of the other people in the class, I work it almost ten times better for my flexibility - and Bootcamp Chick is proud, but she keeps yelling to make sure it doesn’t get to my head. 

And when Pajama Pants Chick shows up to whine mid-warrior pose, she doesn’t have a chance. I breathe fire through my mouth like a dragon no one can conquer. She seems surprised, arresting a potato chip in mid-air as her hair flies back from the wind and the sacred mantra screams past her:

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!

And she has to. Instantly. 

Bootcamp Chick has business at hand, and I am getting STRONG. I walk out of yoga with the stride of a lioness, calm, powerful, heads turn to notice me, and for a moment, I don’t even care. 

I may not be perfect, and I care less if I am, or how many people like me, or if a beloved loves me back. I have some shit to say, and I will lose some friends and maybe some clients along the way. 

But it hardly matters. 

Because I am showing UP. 

And if I get hurt along the way, fuck it. I'm impenetrable. Except when I cry. Which is becoming more frequent. And that feels good too. I never knew how strong and vulnerable I could be at once. And that’s worth boot camp. Even if it hurts.