Here’s the deal.
I’m in menopause. It’s kind of like the first time I admitted I am an alcoholic: “Hi. I’m Christine and I’m in menopause.”
I’m sure by looking at me you would never guess. “Golly, she doesn’t look a day over 32.” However, I am a few weeks from 52. I am sure my gynecologist will want to draw blood and do a hormone test to CONFIRM it. She will want to know whether I am in perimenopause or full-blown menopause so we can discuss hormone replacement therapy and osteoporosis.
Seriously, do you think I care? It’s not like I wake up in the middle of the night, dripping wet and ask “Hmm. Is this menopause or perimenopause?” Frankly, I don’t want to know if this is perimenopause. If it is just perimenopause that means it is going to get worse and I don’t need to know that.
“What is the point?” the woman asked me in a text message.
Instantly a drum-roll of trite responses popped into my head: “You’re so smart and help so many people.” “With all you’ve been through you are such an inspiration to others.” “You have so much to live for.”
True, but those responses are monkey dung, all of them. The point is, I don’t know what “the point” is for this woman. What I do know is that it is okay to not know “the point.” The lack of “a point” does not mean there is no point. It simply means you don’t know what “the point” is right now. And that is okay. I don’t need to know everything all the time.
I had a really nice watch. Very expensive. A Cartier. It was given to me by my employer when I had been with the company for 20 years. It was a wonderful perk. The company sends you to this fancy-pants jewelry store on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach and you get to pick out a watch.
They gave out the watches to all the 20-year employees at an annual dinner. I was in the darkest throws of a depression, skin and bones, unable to work and on disability. But I would be damned if I was going to miss that dinner.