Chapter 26
26
LEAVE COLIN FOR PENELOPE
Becca
I am successfully managing not to worry about my mother, Daniel, Adam or Saul. Or Simon’s reaction to the situation. Or whether or not my article on this retreat will be up to Grace’s standards. I am blocking all negative thoughts – or at least most of them – and focusing on making the most of this experience.
The meditation at the end of the yoga class had been something else. I’d come dangerously close to doing a full, noisy ugly cry sob during it. And not just because I was sure I was about to expire from the heat. I don’t think I have ever sweated so much in my life. Eimear made sure to tell us all to hydrate as much as possible and that had made me nervous. I feared when we had showered and gathered for lunch we would be ‘treated’ to another variety of smoothie, or something that was 70 per cent edamame beans, 15 per cent quinoa and the rest a mix of chickpeas and seeds.
It was, as my mother would say, ‘far from chickpeas and quinoa I was reared’, and as much as I have tried to embrace healthier eating, my idea of a salad still mostly revolves around lettuce, tomato, spring onions, a boiled egg cut in half and a slice of ham. A good old Irish salad.
Thankfully when we arrived for lunch we were greeted instead by the smell of a delicious leek and potato soup, complete with freshly baked wheaten bread right out of the oven. I don’t think I have ever tasted anything quite like it in my life before. Although I’m willing to accept my appreciation for it might be heightened by the experiences of the morning. In the space of a few hours we had been almost frozen to death, fed lumpy smoothies and then parboiled in our own sweat for almost two hours. We were hungry, a little achy and desperate for carbs.
But I don’t regret coming here. I’m drinking in this experience. Trying to consign it all to my memory, which is no easy task given the brain fog that was swept in with the menopause. Yet I am determined to not only write a kick-arse article but also to hold on to this feeling. Being surrounded by other women, all of whom are here making each other feel like we are superheroes, is quite intoxicating.
Negative self-talk is verboten, but I’m also finding I’m just not in my usual self-deprecating frame of mind. I feel as if we’re all in a big bubble of sisterhood – a maxed-out version of the ladies’ loos in a nightclub after midnight. The vibe is all mutual appreciation and support. But with no worries about a hangover in the morning.
Even Niamh seems to be in better form than she was yesterday, or even this morning. She’s chatting animatedly to her newfound friend, Deirdre, and it’s nice to see her smiling and laughing. I’m coming to realise she’d been doing less of that recently.
I find myself thinking it would be amazing to do this every weekend. Or live in a community just like this full time. A place that can pull us out of our low mood. A community of women of a certain age, celebrating ourselves just as we are, being creative and open to new friendships. A communing of spirits.
A bit like a cult, I realise.
Maybe I’m getting a little carried away with myself.
Then again, are cults always bad? Surely there must be some good ones out there?
‘Penny for them?’ Niamh asks as she and Deirdre come level with me. We’re walking uphill towards Glenevin Waterfall, and we’re now on the final stretch, having hiked up from the glamping site, along the twisty country roads and now into the woods. The rumble of the waterfall in the distance lets us know we’re close and I can finally stop calling Niamh and Laura ‘Papa Smurf’ and asking them ‘how much further’.
‘Oh, God, they’re not even worth a penny.’ I smile. ‘Mostly thinking about the Smurfs and where they came from.’
‘Duh!’ Niamh says. ‘They come from Smurf Village, which is in the Smurf Forest. Call yourself a fan!’ She rolls her eyes in mock disgust then laughs.
‘I know that!’ I protest. ‘That’s not what I meant though. I meant… how they come about? Like if Smurfette is the only girl Smurf, who births them? She’s a young Smurf – certainly younger than Papa Smurf. So she can’t have birthed them all. And even if she did, that would mean either her “papa” or one of her own children would have to have impregnated her… unless… this is some kind of Smurf miracle and the Smurf Angel Gabriel came down from on high and?—’
‘I beg you please don’t continue with this story. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more disturbed in my life. I knew you’d a sick mind.’ She smiles.
‘I’m just curious!’
‘Do you not remember? The Smurfs are delivered to the Smurf Village by a stork. No immaculate conception needed,’ Deirdre chimes in.
‘You deserve a prize for remembering that,’ Laura says. ‘There’s days I swear I can’t remember my own name.’
‘You and me both.’ Deirdre laughs, and she and Laura walk ahead, falling into their own conversation.
Now it’s just Niamh and me. Maybe it’s time to really check in with her.
‘So what about you, Niamh? A penny for yours? If you don’t mind me saying, you’ve really not been yourself lately.’
‘I’m fine,’ she says, but it’s clear she’s not fine. My even asking the question has brought the shutters down. I can sense a full change in her demeanour.
‘Niamh, we can’t support you if you don’t tell us.’ I try and say it as gently as I can, and bearing in mind all Laura’s wise words at the bonfire last night, but I feel so frustrated with her.
If things have been going wrong for her, why hasn’t she spoken to me about it? We tell each other everything. Or at least, I thought we did.
There’s a pause before she replies. ‘It was just a long week at work. And you know, with everything else with the kids. And it’s January and the SAD is at me like a bastard. Combined with this perimenopause horror show… But I’m fine. I’m honestly fine.’
She sounds as if she is trying to convince herself. I have to tread carefully here because I know that, for all her over-sharing and boisterousness, Niamh can be quite a private person. Especially when it comes to things she finds more challenging. In fact, she can even be an occasionally prickly person if she feels she’s being pushed.
‘At least the winter solstice has passed. The days are starting to get longer once again. The end is definitely in sight for these bleak long nights,’ I offer.
‘Aye. I imagine my form will be better come March, or maybe April,’ she says and walks on a few steps ahead of me, signalling the conversation is over even though I don’t think we’re any further forward, not at all. Even though there is the chatter of the women around us, there is no escaping the depth of the awkward silence between us.
As if it can sense the darkness of our mood, the sky seems to cloud over – heavy, dark clouds gathering above us.
We walk on for another couple of minutes, me trying to match Niamh’s pace as she angry stomps towards the site of natural beauty that is normally so peaceful and serene.
Until she stops, suddenly, and turns back to look at me. ‘Actually, you know what? If you want the truth, I am… fed up. To the very back teeth. And it’s not just all those things I’ve just listed, or that I need someone to look at my HRT dose – although I do very much want that to be looked at because what the actual fuck, Becca? How do women go through this every day and just keep going as if their body and mind isn’t trying to kill them or strip whatever sanity they have left from their bones? I am constantly stuck in my own head, thinking about, you know, everything. How it’s all changing. How Paul is being a grumpy shite and I don’t know how to get through to him.’ She starts walking again and I set off alongside her, determined to keep up and to listen and be a good friend.
‘You know what the pair of us are like,’ she says of her marriage as she walks. ‘We balance each other out. If one of us is down, the other does the lifting. We’ve managed to maintain a pretty healthy balance doing just that. But when both of us are down it’s just… pure shite if I’m being honest. Neither of us seems to be in the right place to lift each other up much. In fact, if anything, he’s just irritating the life out of me at the moment. I’d go as far as to say I don’t bloody like him at the moment. What if we’re going to fall apart?’ I can see her start to well up, but she roughly wipes her eyes and just walks faster.
I feel uncomfortable when Niamh expresses any discontent in her marriage. Not that it happens very often. But she and Paul are my living proof that good, strong marriages exist still in this day and age. And in my generation. The generation the world tells us is all too happy to call it a day on their lifelong commitment and head for the divorce courts. Like Simon and I did. Even if that was not a quick or easy decision to make.
Niamh and Paul have not only always been miles away from the divorce courts, but also very obviously still very much in love with each other. They are everything Simon and I were not. And I need them to still be that.
‘Don’t look at me that way,’ Niamh chides. ‘I can read you like a book, Becca Burnside. I’m not saying I’ve fallen out of love with him. Or I want to run away with a younger man – although, if that fella from Bridgerton was available…’
‘Which one?’ I ask, in a very pathetic attempt to lighten the mood because, if I’m being honest, I have no idea what to say to her.
‘Oh, God… does it matter? Any of them would do. Except maybe Colin,’ she says, her expression perfectly serious. ‘But anyway… I’m not saying it’s all over, just that he is so infuriating at the moment. He’s so concerned about Jodie and worried she’s throwing away her young and free years that, well, it makes me wonder, does he regret settling down? With me? We were still young. Not as young as Jodie and Adam, obviously, but young all the same. I’m not sure what had us in such a rush to grab hold of as many responsibilities as possible.’
She looks so sad that I do the only thing I can think of to do, which is to immediately pull her into a hug. Thankfully she lets me and doesn’t push me to the ground for aggressively hugging her too tight.
‘He loves you, Niamh,’ I say. ‘I think it’s just… well… men don’t really get it. Do they? This whole menopause thing and how it effs with our emotions and our very sense of sanity. And I don’t want to generalise,’ I begin, knowing full well I am absolutely about to walk headfirst into a massive generalisation, ‘but men tend to not think before they speak. I’m not saying they lack empathy, but they absolutely and definitely lack the ability to read the room at times. Of course, I’m no expert, being a single woman who hasn’t lived with a man in a decade.’
‘Your boys are men!’ Niamh protests.
‘They don’t count. They are duty bound to listen to me as their mother. I mean, they don’t always do it but…’
‘No, I understand. And yeah, I think there’s some truth in that, but I also wonder if it’s just that I have become some sort of ginormous bitch or something? My patience is definitely not what it used to be.’
Niamh can occasionally be a bit scary. She is a very determined woman who very much likes to take control. But given that I am a very passive person who often struggles to make decisions and has a serious people-pleaser problem, I have been only too happy to let her make key decisions in our friendship. Be that where we go for dinner, or any plans we make surrounding going to concerts, or days out with the kids. She’s good at it. Why would we not play to her strengths?
But even at her scariest, I would never – could never – think of her as some sort of ginormous bitch. I shake my head. ‘Not possible,’ I tell her.
‘But you would say that! I love you very, very much, Becca. Like insanely a lot. But you are the kind of person who sees the good in everyone, and while that’s all very admirable, it does sometimes blind you to days when I am in fact a complete bitch. Or grumpy in any regards. I’ve become so snappy lately. And Paul has become snappy too.’
‘You’ve had a lot on your plate,’ I say, trying not to let my mind run away with her statement that I can be blind to bad behaviour in others. Is that true? How can it be when I can very clearly see the more annoying qualities in Simon? Not to mention it was me who led a ten-year Cold War with Laura after my marriage broke down and she welcomed Simon to her home. I can be a badass when I want to be.
‘We’re in our late forties, Becs. There is always a lot on our plates. You know that. We’re dragged from pillar to post doing all the things we’re supposed to be doing and having next to no time to do things we actually want to be doing. And we’re doing it all with hot flushes and the return of acne in some twisted sequel to puberty.’ She makes quote marks with her fingers and in a deep voice, as if she’s doing a voiceover for a movie trailer, she says, ‘ Return of the Acne: This Time It’s Serious .’
I snort.
‘And our periods… dear God… I fear I’ll give birth to my own womb one of these days. Then the brain fog, and the thinning skin and… and… itchy nipples! Jesus Christ, Becca! Why did no one tell us that itchy nipples are a thing in menopause? Do you know how absolutely horrific it is to have your nips itching like you’ve just dipped them in itching powder while you’re standing in front of a class of twenty-five teenagers? There is nowhere to run! And trust me, there is no discreet way to scratch them!’ Her voice has reached fever pitch now and a few other walkers have stopped to listen.
Thankfully on this cold January afternoon the walk is relatively quiet and the only people who hear her outburst are our fellow group members.
‘E45,’ one of them says. ‘Or any type of unperfumed moisturiser or emollient. Rub some in after your shower each day. It really helps.’
‘A shower definitely helps take the itch away, at least for as long as you’re under the water,’ another woman says.
‘Can we permanently stay under the shower? It can take away the itchiness and the sweatiness. I swear as soon as I get out of the shower, I start sweating all over again and want to get right back in.’ This time it’s Deirdre speaking, and she is smiling sympathetically.
‘These are great ideas,’ Niamh says. ‘I’ll definitely try them.’
‘We didn’t mean to jump into your conversation,’ Deirdre says, all of a sudden colouring.
‘Oh, God, please don’t apologise,’ Niamh says. ‘I wasn’t exactly being discreet, was I? I’d have listened in too if I heard someone mention their itchy nipples. Plus haven’t we already bonded over Troy Bolton and his abs?’
Deirdre breathes a sigh of relief, just as Peggy catches up with us.
‘All good, ladies?’ Peggy asks upon seeing us huddle together having what my mum would no doubt call a ‘Mother’s Meeting’.
‘Yeah,’ Niamh says cheerily. I know immediately that her big chat about her big feelings is over for now. Niamh is back to doing what Niamh does best – enthusiastically leading everyone on. ‘We were just perving over Zac Efron.’
‘Great!’ Peggy says, enthusiastically. ‘Although he’s a bit too young for me. I like an older man. A Harrison Ford, for example. Now there’s someone I could perv over from morning till night.’