How to Talk to a Middle-Aged Lady
We are delicate flowers withering in the heat and we'll throat punch anyone who thinks otherwise
Friends! Take a listen to this week’s post if you like! LISTENER ALERT: I do drop a big, beautiful, totally appropriate f-bomb. I also say “hot as balls” which I’m sure the kids will love!
The other day my husband proved to be the most kind, loving, thoughtful, respectful, considerate husband to ever husband in all the land.
He called me “pre-menopausal.”
I mean, how sweet is that?!
Pre!
As in, still waiting for the BIG SHOW.
As in, still a phosphorus-rich, porous, fertile garden bed.
As in, not a dusty, pulpless husk of a melon shell. Nothing but rind up in here!
This sweet man is so clueless and I love him for it! He has no idea the S.S. Pre has left the harbor and is slowly sinking in the bay. But his comment made me feel like a fresh-faced, junior debutante middle-aged lady mom. Like the ingenue Skipper to menopausal Barbie. I did not correct him. It was the nicest thing anyone’s called me since my son said I was the third funniest mom he knew.
There’s a lot of negative chatter about middle-aged ladies out there. (It’s me. I’m the negative chatter.) But would we be so bad if we could feel so good? That got me thinking. Middle-aged ladies are a rapt, thirsty audience when it comes to empathy. It’s actually quite easy to tame the beast (and even easier to trip right on into pits of rage territory, but you already knew that.) If “make a middle-aged lady feel great today” is on your to-do list, here’s what you need to do.
YES, HONEY, IT IS SO HOT IN HERE
We spent the hottest day of the year in a school gymnasium to watch a jump rope recital. I don't know if private schools lack the funding for a little weekend AC action, but I’m thinking they may need to up that annual tuition. Things got real stuffy, real fast.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. (As we were in a Catholic school gymnasium, I found this to be an appropriate declaration.) “It’s hot as balls in here!” (Also appropriate.)
I jammed an elbow into Bart’s left kidney as I tore the zipper off my hoodie attempting to free myself from my literal sweat suit.
Bart, who had on jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and a jacket said, “Really? I can totally feel the AC.” He even punctuated that dumb-ass sentence with a little shudder.
Yes, friends this is the same man whom I proclaimed 13 paragraphs ago to be so kind and loving and considerate and all those other LIES. He’s not perfect, OK???? Because if he were, he would know, you never look a red-faced, sweaty middle-aged lady in the eyes and tell her you are not hot.
I don’t care if you’re encased in a block of ice. If she says it’s getting hot in here, we take off all our clothes.
I DIDN’T HEAR ANYTHING
Middle-aged lady bodies are like contestants on The Bachelor. They constantly settle. (OOOOH SNAP. Ok, ok calm down, everyone.) Perhaps a better analogy would be to say our bodies are like 137-year-old houses. And like those creaking floorboards and crackling joists, we make a shit load of noises. Especially at night.
These noises are totally normal! Normal and beautiful.
As our bodies sink and expand and give into the siren call of gravitational forces, they create a cacophony of sounds. Sometimes it’s a gurgle, a snort, or a trumpet from the bowels of the bowels. Sometimes we snap, crack, and pop. Once Bart swears he heard something inside me ask for a lemon!
Give me a lemon! said the little person living inside my large intestines.
Who is asking for a lemon1???
The important thing to remember is you did not hear a thing. Not a godamn thing. If she asks, Did you hear that? the answer is: If you mean, did I hear you ask for a foot massage? Why yes, I did! Park ‘em here, you beautiful goddess!
I DIDN’T NOTICE ANYTHING
Not only are you deafened to the bittersweet symphonies of middle-aged, you must develop selective face and body blindness. The middle-aged magic isn’t only happening below the surface. We have no fucking idea what our bodies are capable of and what surprises and delights we shall awaken to. We are losing muscle and gaining weight. The shapes of our bodies are changing and not in a transformative 30-day wall Pilates sort of way. Our clothes don’t fit or are uncomfortable which is why we are always in that same pair of yoga pants and you love seeing us in them because we look great and they make us very happy!
But it ain’t great, friends. Our changing bodies do not make us happy. It’s basically puberty all over again. Once I found a zit taking up residence next to a chin hair! My adult acne and my Disney witch chin living together in perfect harmony. To say we are complex beings is an understatement.
THAT SMELLS GREAT, HONEY!
Speaking of puberty…
Once in Pilates, my teacher asked me to do a side stretch and drop my chin towards my shoulder.
“OH MY GOD!” I yelled.
Amy was seconds away from calling 911 assuming I must have dislodged something, but nope. My nose so close to my armpit revealed a new and exciting middle-aged bonus.
“I STINK! OH MY GOD I STINK SO BAD!”
“Maybe it’s your shirt!” Amy said. “It’s really hard to get sweat out of clothes. I’m sure it’s not you— it your detergent. I don’t smell anything!”
Amy is also a middle-aged lady. Amy understands the assignment.
I pulled the shirt away from my pit, went in deep, and took a big, deep inhale.
“THAT FOUL ODOR IS NOT MY SHIRT. THAT IS ME!”
The smell was definitely coming from inside the house. My house. Or rather my rotting, decaying temple. Ugh. And I had showered before class!
There is nothing, and I mean, nothing that can mask the odor of middle-aged sweat glands. And you never know when they will rear their putrid head. Sometimes literally right out of a shower, sometimes while stopped at a red light, sometimes while reaching for a box cereal on the top shelf at the grocery store and it catches me so off guard I yelp like something up there bit me, hightail it straight to the hygiene section, and self-check out some emergency Mitchum.
It stinks that we stink. Not that it bothers you because you don’t smell a thing. Breathe out of your mouth if you have to. Shove a dryer sheet up your nostrils. If she asks if you smell anything, the answer is Mmm, is that lavender?
OH SORRY, I MUST HAVE FORGOTTEN
It’s not just frown lines and weakened pelvic floors — our minds, bodies, and spirits all go south too! Did you know—
…
…
Never mind. Forgot what I was going—.
OH, RIGHT!
Our memory and ability to multitask take a hit too. Did you ask her to pick up rolled oats and fish oil at the grocery store? Are you sure? Okay, I’m going to ask you one more time: Are you really sure you asked her for those things? Because the answer is no, you did not.
But Shelly! I’m sure I did! I wrote it down and saw her take the list!
Not relevant. Overruled. Dismissed. In fact, I’m holding you in contempt, bucko! Get your own damn fish oil before you make her think she’s losing what’s left of her mind! She might forget to pick up your stupid stinky healthy foods, but she will never forget that time you accused her of forgetting to pick up your stupid stinky healthy foods. You see the difference?
It is up to all of us to protect our middle-aged ladies at all costs! We’re a goddamn national treasure! We’re also unpredictable and full of rage and not above exacting vengeance by putting you in a dutch oven. We’ve got the renewable resources and we’re not afraid to use them.
With love, rage, and cleavage sweat,
Shelly
Shall I name him Manny O’Pause??? Yes! Yes, I shall!
That's why I love my yoga pants and I carry deodorant with me at all times
Spinoff idea: Manny O’Pause, the scurvy-afflicted intestinal leprechaun, needs his own cartoon series. Also, I hate to say this, but I’m kind of looking forward to the day when “It’s freezing in here” transforms into “It’s so hot in here.” It’ll make coexisting a lot easier. I can agree to all the other conditions for that alone.