April 6th, 2025
This morning began, as so many do of late, with me flinging off the bedcovers in what I can only describe as a state of spontaneous combustion. The fire within was not metaphorical, dear reader, but very real and most unladylike. My room, though chilled by spring’s hesitant breath, might as well have been the pits of Hades. I paced about, fanning myself with the morning paper, which informed me of a curious feat: the Boston Celtics, a team of tall American gentlemen, have made history by breaking the all-time single-season record for three-point shots. How droll, to think one’s legacy might be measured in baskets from a great distance — I struggle enough merely to locate my spectacles.
Menopause, I find, is a most impolite companion. It barges in uninvited, deprives one of sleep, robs the skin of its former glow, and quite without shame, introduces sudden torrents of emotion — I wept at a dog food commercial yesterday and cannot presently explain why. My memory, once as sharp as a bonnet pin, now resembles Swiss cheese, and I’ve taken to writing lists for everything — including where I last put the previous list.
At four and fifty, with no one to share my bed but a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice and a rather judgmental houseplant, I find myself both entirely alone and strangely content. The silence, though sometimes vast, is mine.
To you, dear reader, I offer this: we are not meant to remain unchanging. Let us shed our old selves like winter coats and greet the warmth ahead — even if that warmth is an internal blaze at 2 a.m. Life, in all its absurdity, continues — and so, by grace, wit and grit, shall we.
Menna Poss
Being the daily life and journal of one Menna Poss — a single lady of four and fifty, beset by heat, hilarity, and reflection.
AI Art by M.A. Schmid, created with Midjourney.