Esther McCarthy: Let's play a game — is it menopause or am I a moron?

Some have told me I use perimenopause as an excuse for bad behaviour, I needed to examine this

Esther McCarthy lists three events from the last week, it's up to you to decide whether it's hormones or just 'being a bit of a gowl' 

It has been pointed out to me that I may be using this whole perimenopause carry on as an excuse for general bad behaviour.

I, obviously, take great exception to this, sulk, and refuse to make dinner for three days, but it did get me thinking. I HAVE just been putting everything under ‘the hormones are fecked, shur what can I do’,’ column of late.

Maybe I need to examine this.

So let’s play a game. I’ll share three things that happened in the last few weeks, and we’ll decide together if we can attribute it to the effects of hormonal imbalance, or just me being a bit of a gowl. Iiiiiit’s Menopause or Moron! Cue audience applause and cheers.

Togs trauma

Our first incident occurs before that whole 48 hours of sun that we got, when some of you complained about it being too hot, thus angering the sun gods who decided to teach us a lesson by making the June bank holiday a spitty-rain washout.

(I hope ye are happy now, in yer raincoats and frizzy hair and that ye lost the receipt to the air conditioning system ye dashed out to buy, keeping to the shaded areas.)

So anyway, it’s early enough, a meh day, and there isn’t that many people on the beach. I am changing quickly under the hoodie towel, then break out, ready for the sea. It’s on the main strand on Inchydoney and the tide is out, so there’s a bit of a jaunt before I get to the water. I prance down, humming the Baywatch theme and feel something’s not quite right, I’m tugging at the arse of the swimsuit. Was it always this uncomfortable? It feels like it’s not covering my bumbum.

My weight has been fluctuating wildly recently (Ding, ding, ding — Menopause!!) but I don’t think I’ve burst out that much?

I keep dragging it out of my crack as I am a lady and I do lady things and finally I get to the water’s edge.

Like a lot of times in my life, I am distracted and concerned about the wrong thing. Twas my front I should be worried about, not my behind.

I look down. My nipples look back at me. What in the world? I’d put my togs on back to front and am flashing a largely empty beach, thankfully. I could have taken someone’s eye out.

No time for doing my Wim Hof breathing, this is the fastest I get down into the cold water ever, personal best.

I awkwardly pull the swimtogs off and try to put them on the right way round. The waves batter me about a bit, and I half drown trying to keep my body under while the bathing suit wraps itself into a snake shape and my ghostly buttocks bob in the surf.

Oh sod this, I think. I stand up, plant my feet as firmly as I can on the sandy bed, shake the togs out, and put them back on, right way around. Blue water therapy has not helped me today.

‘Moron’ wins the first round.

Eyebrow error

One other indignity that has been added to my list of Things We Will Blame the Perimenopause For of late is the messing about with my hair.

The hair on my head is thin and unpredictable, like a teacher I had in primary school who was always on some kind of a diet (the cabbage soup one haunts me to this day). Meanwhile. the hair on my eyebrows has gone completely rogue,

My eyebrows seems to have given up halfway along each arch, requiring a considerable amount of artistry, plus a steady hand, to fill in, with gentle, quick, short motions to give the effect of a normal brow.

I am late to a dinner thing (shocker) so I decide to drive to the restaurant and do my make-up in the toilet there. It will have to be a fast paint job. Just the basics: Tinted moisturiser, bit of bronzer, mascara, and eyebrows. I show my (naked) face at the table so I’m not marked down as too late and dash to the ladies room. I am deft and deliberate. I have to have my glasses off to apply the mascara but I’ve done this a million times. I could do it with my eyes closed.

Alas, I grab a black eyeliner instead of a brow pencil and startle myself in the mirror when I put back on the specs and see Groucho Marx peering back at me.

Eugene Levy, is it yourself? We were not expecting you for dinner.

I try to take it off with two-ply toilet paper. I end up smearing it all over my forehead. I weep with frustration, then rally and try to apply some of the tinted moisturiser over it. It is no match for the liner that boasts staying power as its main selling point.

I wet some more tissue and furiously scrub until it mostly comes off but leaves two red angry welts across my face.

We eat dinner without anyone mentioning this, or meeting my eye. I vow never to leave the house again.

‘Moron’ takes a two-nil lead.

Count on it

Saying at the start I’ll do three things, then losing focus, using up my word count, and only doing two.

So we end the game with...

Menopause 1, Moron 2

Thanks for playing!