Menopause has left me feeling deflated

Hello, It’s Mary….. Hello You Gorgeous Menopausal Moms!

It’s quite amazing what happens when losing weight and menopause coincide. I have lost 34 pounds since May. It appears that I’ve lost 15 pounds in each boob and four pounds scattered all across the rest of my body.

According to the National Cancer Institute, in a handy pamphlet about breast changes that aren’t cancer, when your hormone levels drop during menopausa breast tissue “becomes less dense and more fatty.” Apparently my lobes and lobules, crucial to milk creation, are also kaput.

(Kaput, by the way, is not the official medical term)  So I guess I was left with no density and more fat which left that particular area of my body while remaining in other areas. (Namely tummy and upper arms.)
In my case, again this is probably not how my doctor would say it, my boobs left to their own devices simply look deflated. 

Apparently that is not all that unusual.

 

Thankfully, a good bra, one size smaller, shoves them into the approximation of the space they once held on their own unassisted.  But, while I’ve never had a outsized, ongoing interest in their size and shape, it is kind of astonishing what difference a few months and a few pounds can make. I have looked in the mirror in a bit of wonder and awe. Somebody recently told me that older people are incredibly resilient because they are every adapting to a changing body. I totally get what they mean.

That doesn’t mean I’m sorry I have been losing weight.

I move through the world with more ease. I feel strong for maybe the first time ever and certainly the first time in a long time.

I’m kind of proud of myself. And believe me when I tell you if I can do it anybody can.

And, so far, I haven't had to go crazy.

I know some people do.  I have a friend who is a beast in the gym and a fiend at calorie counting. She has lost more than 50 pounds. And while she looks great, she seems to take little joy her transformation. And, unfortunately, she is also losing her hair.

I have taken a more laid back approach in part because the effort I am putting out is still showing some results. According to my Goggle Medical Degree that is because my friend had already been exercising pretty frequently while I had only been exercising my right to watch reality television while knitting. I think because of that I benefit from my slothfulness. 

My body is like, whoa, we’re moving!

What’s that about!?!

Boobs aside, which as we all know is where they go when we lay down, there have been other unintended consequences. My mouth literally watered the other day when looking at a pear, fig and feta cheese salad even though I’m not sure I had ever eaten that particular combination. It was delicious and I now have in my house the ingredients needed to make one. The second one was as delicious as the first. I soon will have a third.

Overall, actually, I have discovered an almost Pavlovian response to food stimuli that I never recognized before. I'm not sure that it is menopause-related but it is strange to notice at age 50. Maybe I have been spending too much time with my dog. 

I also know I have about 70 pounds to go before I am at the upper end of the range considered appropriate  for my height by those bastards at the National Institutes of Health. (I’m not sure I’ve been in that range since I was about 24 so I wonder about its validity.) Still it is something to shoot for and I’m heading in the right direction, one or two pounds at a time.

Here’s a weird thing. I feel so much better I forget how big I still really am. Sometimes I fool myself into thinking the current weight loss might be good enough and then see a picture and think…hmmmm…no you’ve got some work to do.

And, apparently, that's going to be a challenge because it's suppose to get significantly harder following menopause to lose weight. The Mayo Clinic says that has to do with the shift in muscle to fat as we age. It also offers these genius tips for menopausal women: Move more. Eat Less. Seek support.

I’ve been doing two of those, I guess now I’m doing the third. Feel free to support. I could seriously use it.

I'll keep taking the smallest of baby steps.

On Thanksgiving I ate turkey and gravy and stuffing and skipped the pie.

Today I met for the first time with my very own personal trainer. Maybe down the line she will have some suggestions about the boob thing. Or  maybe that's a bit too personal. I also think they are beyond being trained. #menopausal moms

3Ms: Mat Maid to Mom to Mid Life Crisis

I was a Mat Maid at Waggener High School  in 1982 where wrestling was, at the time, the sport.
A Mat Maid's job was to cheer at wrestling matches.
Sue Heck, the dweeby middle daughter on TVs The Middle, is a kind of  fictional Mat Maid. But at Waggener High School in 1982 it was considered an honor. If I remember correctly the boy athletes voted the girls onto the squad.
As my brief tenure would attest, skill was not a pre-requisite.
Mat Maiding overall made me uncomfortable. I didn't enjoy being so front and center with so much pain. I had to resist the urge to yell at the grappling boys: Use Your Words!
No offense to those athletes, and they were impressive, but I'm generally not a fan of grunting, moaning and wrestling unless I am an active participant.
Frankly, the title Mat Maid even at 17 it made me think of a maid who made her money on a mat, short for mattress, and, well, that didn't seem appropriate.
As I believe we have established with It's OK. Go Gray I was adorable, thanks Mom/Dad/God, but was clueless.
But  even way back in the age of Big Shoulder Pads and Bigger Hair I was aware that I was a terrible Mat Maid.
And that one particular Mat Maid semester I had a lucrative waitressing job, a boyfriend, was editor of the school paper and, you know, trying to get into college I remember getting a nasty virus or walking pneumonia. It might have been Mat Maid induced MRSA. Anyway, my Mom told I was stretched too thin and I had to let something go so, bye-bye my short cheering career. I think I was looking for an excuse to decline something that was suppose  that was an honor because I didn't want to seem ungrateful because, you know, boys voted for me!
About a year later, around my 18th birthday, I remember thinking really clearly....I'll never be a cheerleader. Which is weird, because I really never wanted to be a cheerleader. My failed Mat Maid effort showed that.
I think at the time it just marked a passing of a phase like when I was 7 and realized I was never really going to be a Pretty Pretty Princess or when I was 22 at my first job and I thought 'I will never go from reporter to Editor-in-Chief is two years' which had happened in college. Another revelation at the time was "I will never get another summer off."
(Random aside: I was also a ball girl for the Westport High School fighting soccer Warhawks circa 1980-81. I liked this job because it afforded close proximity to soccer players who were a Harry Styles-type combination of dreamy and mildly rebellious. There was also limited grunting and pain. Plus in those early Title IX Days it offered me the athletic outlet of running, climbing fences and being part of a team.  Also I, for a ridiculously long time, wanted to put "Ball Girl: 1980-1981" and "Mat Maid: 1981-1982" on a resume under "Other Interests" just to see what happened. Back to the story at hand.)
Over the years there have been some other moments of "I will never" some are poignant like "I will never see my Papaw again" others are shallow like  "chances are, I will never be famous."
But as you likely all know by the blog title Menopausal Moms I have hit the big one.
I will never have another child.
That ship has sailed.
That store has closed.
This uterus is officially out of business.
I don't know that I have ever really thought.....I must have another kid. I did think, briefly and wrongly, that maybe having another baby would right my wrong-trending marriage. Thank God for a moment of clarity there.
But more and more I am trying to think about my next chapter as my daughter gets ready to drive and go to college then on with her life.
I have had three main jobs,  two of them paying,  in my life.
Waitress, Writer, Mom.
The perimeters of one is changing and I can't do anything about it.
Adjusted for inflation of the other two one of them paid significantly better, especially in the last few years when health insurance rates keep going up, unpaid furloughs are required and raises, even matching 401-K contributions, have been non-existent at the same time workloads, required job skills and stress levels at my place of employment have increased.
So I'm trying to refigure the Mom part. (Thus, the blog)
I'm thinking about the rest.
There have been so many signs that God is trying to nudge me and, as always, I am slow to take the hint.
I got up on a recent Sunday and picked up the the paper from my driveway dressed in my non-too-fancy pajamas that didn't match and drove to the home of a long-time subscriber who had been working without success for two weeks to get her newspaper delivered.
It wasn't a long drive. I live in a small town.
But the trip was notable for two things. One, I don't normally go out, sans bra,  in Pjs and Crocs on a winters morn.
Two, I don't generally sob while driving.
I cried most of the way because my heart was breaking. Working for a newspaper is more than a paycheck for me it is a calling. It's what I've wanted to do, more or less, since I was 10. For a restless spirit who loved to write it was kind a dream job. I love all the good and noble parts of it. I am a believer in the power of a story both big and small.
It's also been a lifeline for me. When you tell the story, you are in charge and get to make the world make sense. There were times when I desperately needed the world to make sense.
I learn something every single time even when it is a topic I've covered a lot before.
I get to invest in people and, most of the time, help someone
I have to wonder if "I will never be able to do this work until I retire"
That is a big one.
I admire women who've gone back to school or started something completely different mid-life.
And I was once a girl who just picked a path and charged towards it. When I was a freelancer I would look at any kind of product with words and think: Someone has to write that, it might as well be me.
She's in there, I guess, but she seems diminished and not quite up for another big bold run.
I am pretty sure I'm not alone in these feelings.
I believe it is called a Mid-Life Crisis
I just know it makes me incredibly sad. A few weeks ago I was at a lunch with a bunch of nice people who all devote their lives to helping others. My daughter was with me. Someone I really respect introduced me as being "a really great reporter".  For the first time ever, I wished she could think of something else nice to say.