The past two weeks have been a total disaster. I’ve been late for meetings, missed deadlines, and neglected to return phone calls and emails. Last week, I intended to arrive early for a meeting in central London, but I went the wrong way around the Circle line (not the first time, definitely not the last). As a result, I arrived an hour late, working a “look” that can only be described as “discombobulated middle-aged woman gets into a fight with a scarecrow and loses”. Losing every single battle I face in life, no matter how small, can only be down to one thing: hormones.
I say “hormones”, because it’s not just my hormones I’m having to deal with; it’s the entire household’s. Let’s start with the least troublesome member, AKA the dog, and work our way up from there, shall we? Poppy the cavapoo, who ought to be renamed Poppy The Angel Dog Sent From Heaven To Be My Soulmate, goes hog-wild when in heat.
Stealing large cuddly toys from the kids’ bedrooms, she humps said stolen goods for hours before lying on her back, panting and exhausted to the point of needing an animal ambulance.
Given I am now totally over having a pack of male dogs following her around howling, circa three or four times a year, plus the toy theft and having to watch my “soulmate” hump Pikachu, I last week took her to the vet to have her “desexed”. I swear the operation used to be called getting “spayed”, but no, the young female vet announced Poppy was to be “desexed”, and I totally lost the plot, sobbing into the dog’s ginger fur. Eventually the vet ushered me out of the door, swearing blind: “Poppy is not about to die.” Was it the dog’s fertility I was mourning – or my own?
The tween daughter, who, having just started secondary school, has suddenly taken an interest in her hair and what she wears. Which I know sounds like nothing, but this child couldn’t have cared less about clothes five months ago, so it comes as a shock. Getting ready for a Melanie Martinez concert this week was like prepping for the red carpet at the Oscars. When she sent me out to find a pair of “pink Mary Jane shoes” at 3pm on the day of the gig, I came out in such a vigorous hot sweat I had to find a freezer in a nearby supermarket so I could lean my entire body against three rows of frozen peas. Sorry supermarket I shall not name.
The male teenager in the house takes up most of the airspace right now, and over the past 10 days, I’ve become a close pen pal with almost every single one of his teachers. Tomorrow, I’ve been promoted to meeting with the headteacher! I mean, talk about life goals achieved! A mix of his puberty and my menopause, the dog’s desexing, plus the Martinez concert has left me a husk of a woman, which I stupidly mentioned to a woman at the school gates whom I barely know. “Oh, you had your children later in life, didn’t you? That’s the thing with waiting: while they’re going through the worst of their teenage hormones, you’re in menopause!” I smiled, fake laughed and nodded. When safely alone in the car, I let out a blood-curdling scream. Dabbing my eyes before my daughter jumped into the passenger seat, I turned on the radio to full volume and apologised to my newly desexed dog for my outburst.
Luckily for the woman at the school gate, she’d managed to meet a man with whom to procreate before the age of 30 – but I didn’t. Stewing over the conversation that night, I concluded how dare she suggest I’d “waited” to have my children? It wasn’t exactly a choice! I’m not someone who decided my career couldn’t be put on hold; I didn’t meet anyone with whom I wanted to start a family.
The following day, the dog wearing a body bandage on account of decommissioned ovaries (like her owner), I casually said to the woman at the school gate: “Forgot to mention yesterday ... tsssk, ageing parents! [picture me performing an exaggerated eye-roll]. Not only am I menopausal while the kids are out-of-control teenagers, but one of my elderly parents has had several strokes since Christmas! Have a great day!” I chortled. I swear I heard the dog laugh ...
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