With my fiftieth (and sixtieth) birthday behind me, I like to delude myself into thinking that the worst is over. The truth is (and I know it, I just don't like to say it aloud) that the worst is never over. Not when it comes to menopause.
Gravity will not suddenly reverse its effects. What has sagged will never rise again. At least not without a great deal of surgical help.
Aches and pains are here to stay. As are age spots, gray hair, and varicose veins. I'd get back my twenty-two inch waist at my deathbed. Or in the grave. And who really cares then?
So, I sit back and, as gracefully as I can, accept the inevitable. Part of that, at least for me, is to laugh over what is happening. For if I don't, I will surely cry.