My Menopause Blog: What is Menopause

My menopause and I took the weekend off. I didn't start out with that intention. I merely followed my nose.

You know how companies do that 'been in biz this long' thing by putting a "Since 1950" or whatever year under their company name? I did that on Thursday night. Sue Richards, Home Based Business Since 1989.

When I did the math and realized that I had been generating my own pay cheque for 16 years, primarily working in various arts disciplines, all from some corner of my house, I had an epiphany in the form of a voice that said, "yah done good."

So when the sun was shining like a kid with an ice cream on Friday afternoon, and the autumn leaves were flashing orange, red and yellow glory, I put on my new purple hat, closed down said 'home based business since 1989', and struck out for downtown. I had other fish to fry.

I wandered, gathering as I went. Five junk stores, one liquor store and a cafe later, my step was leisurely and relaxed. By evening I was sitting by a roaring fire, in conversation with three delightfully articulate 20 something year olds, enjoying a Guelph brewed beer and laughing heartily.

Saturday's damp dawn promised a day of drizzle. I barely took noticed thanks to an afternoon house warming party invitation across town. I set off on foot, token gift in hand, marveling at the difference a day makes.

My arrival was met with extreme grinning from the host and hostess. Much to my surprise and amusement, the house warmees, (my mentee and a canoe partner from the summer) had eloped! This was their wedding reception.

Again the exuberance of youth bounced around the room, leaving no old fart stone unturned. Like showering outdoors on a hot August afternoon, I felt invigorated by my newly married friend's energy. Keen to suck that vibe up, I was the last to leave the party.

Sunday could have been grim. The carpet in my home based business office came with it's own disgusting Since 1969 tag. The long 'brown to hide the dirt' shag, with toxic underpad turned to dust had to go. The evil cover on my floor was messing with my breathing.

With help from a dear, muscular friend, we chopped that sucker up into a dozen manageable pieces, bagged, vacuumed, dusted and wiped for three hours. Even though the tile and plywood beneath holds no charm or character, neither does it hold 36 years of foot odour, dust and crusty stuff.

This morning, my home is lighter. I feel blessed to have young pals. And I'm grateful that my muscled friend was willing to join in the fight against evil carpet.

If this is menopause, I'm good to go.

Sue Richards