I’m usually not a big fan of change, probably why I’ve lived in the same apartment for eleven years, but the change of life as my grandmother called it is one I’m pretty much looking forward to. Those pesky hot flashes will be a warm welcome against the New York cold and being of Italian decent I’ve already been blessed with the upper lip fuzz akin to that of a ripe peach. And I can’t really say I’ll miss any hormonal drop in the sex drive I haven’t seen since my thirties when the introduction of internet dating brought forth the loser brigade.

All in all, I doubt the change of life will change my life in any significant way. Except maybe that I’ll have no excuse for defending my long standing position of ‘bitch’ but  since PMS doesn’t last more than a few days and my bitch like demeanor generally does I doubt anyone was really buying the PMS excuse anyway.

This change comes on the heels of my turning fifty and I plan to welcome both with quiet dignity and pride. Being sans husband, as well as any interest in finding one, I suspect I am now officially a spinster. I have formally claimed my place in the land of old maids and in so doing I declare myself free from requiems like that of getting up at weddings to vie for the coveted bouquet.

Should I be concerned then that what looms before me is nothing more than years spent listening to the ticking of time passing? Or that my best years are behind me? Or that, dare I say it, gravity will grab hold of my boobs and butt? Maybe, but time is relative to what you do with it, and I trust that the only thing behind me is my butt and gravity is welcome to it, screw the gym.

As I look around my home with its pet hair covered furnishings and the dog stretched out on the couch and the cats sunning themselves in every window and I listen to the rabbit doing whatever it is he does in his hutch, it occurs to me that menopause among these mini-paws is certain to be the best chapter of the book ~ Brava!