Menopause in the movies…doesn’t exist. Unless, you consider any movie Miss Crawford starred in post 1950. And, do you want to know the reason why? I think it scares men. I don’t think ghosts or gore or ten foot tall limpid blue aliens can hold a candle to a fifty year old woman for sheer, awe inspiring, fear.
Think Joan in, say, 1951 — the harsh makeup, the lacquered hair — all so yesterday. But, the spirit lives on — the steely humorless demeanor, the superficial sweetness masking a cobra strike. Oh yes. Just ask my beloved.
I was going to post a formal portrait of Joan from that period, but then I saw this and, forgive me for saying so, but I identified… Deeply, deeply, identified. You see, there are days I will rip your heart out over a splash of coffee on the counter or a drop of jam on the floor. Let’s talk dust, better yet, let’s talk baseboards — why is it nobody else but me sees them flocked and teaming with dirt? Are male eyes structurally different than female eyes — that just can’t be… And, if you retort with some particle vs wave theoretical hooey I will smack you.
Brace yourself, a change in tone, some might call it a mood swing, and-oh-my-darlings, they come quickly now. The mister and I have been an item for thirty years. There are days (most days, to be perfectly honest) when I look at him and I think, I am the luckiest girl in the world. Sometimes I look at the kid and I think he’s the most adorable thing on the face of the earth (and let’s face it, he is)… And, yet… Does this afford them any protection? Not really.
I think the male lack of dirt detection is made up for by the Hormonal Danger Zone sensor. I can see it in the set of their shoulders, their primal alacrity, alert, poised to flee – suddenly they decide to go to the hardware store for a useless drill bit or electric doohickey.
“Do you both need to go?”
They exchange a look, leaving dust trails behind.
Thank God for the Swiffer.