Deadlines have always been a great motivator, and now a major one is looming – death. This doesn’t feel tragic; a long deep sleep would be very nice. The question is, what do I have left to do while I am still here?
I can’t deny the obvious markers of time: my face is sagging, my added weight won’t budge, I am less flexible. The real problem with youth is that we take our lovely, supple physicality for granted. Menopause won’t let me; my body is relentlessly becoming something else. It’s a blessing, of course, not having to bleed every month, not having to worry about periods starting on a fun trip when I haven’t carried any pads.
