Something is missing from my life.
You thought I was going to say sex. But I’m talking about something I actually miss.
Although, to be fair, I didn’t even notice my eyebrows were missing.
Which gives you an idea of how I often I look in a mirror.
That’s a tip, for those of you who are aging:
You’ll think you’re young.
Your brain won’t know you’re a hag.
Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend any hags. Because I am one, and I think it might be the greatest word ever. I think we should start owning our hagdom.
Anyway, to get back to my eyebrows, I didn’t really notice they were missing until I was getting a new author photo, which I make sure happens every decade.
I use an author photo until it breaks Photoshop.
A makeup artist came to my house for the photo shoot, took one look at me, and said, “Your eyebrows need filling in.”
Oh, the indignities of old age.
Your brows need filling in, but your waist doesn’t.
So she got some pencils and drew eyebrows on me, like new roofs for my eyes.
That’s the problem with home improvement. It doesn’t stop at your home.
The makeup artist liked my new eyebrows, but I didn’t, since I had gotten used to looking like the clown in It.
I told myself, think of the bright side. You’re in the movies.
Also, it took forever to build my new roof-eyebrows because there’s a lot of variations in eyebrows.
First the makeup artist made them too thick.
I looked like Angry Bird.
Then she thinned them out.
I looked like Boris Badenov.
We settled on thinner still, so at least I got to be Natasha.
Whose last name is Fatale, by the way.
So maybe she’s Italian?
And eyebrow color was an issue, too.
The makeup artist had seven different eyebrow pencils, all of which looked brown to me.
I suggested we go with mousy brown, since that was the color my eyebrows used to be and probably why I don’t miss them.
She preferred blond, since it went with my highlights.
So if the carpet doesn’t match the drapes, change the carpet.
It got me thinking about where my eyebrows went, and I found myself on the Case of the Missing Eyebrows.
Like Nancy Drew, in menopause.
Actually, I’m so much of a hag that I don’t even remember menopause.
I’m past menopause, if such a thing is even possible.
Like if you’re past menopause, you might be dead.
I actually miss menopause.
Those hot flashes kept me warm in winter. I saved on my oil bill. Also, I didn’t have to shower, because I was always wet.
Again, look on the bright side: Menopause saves money.
In fact, I remember menopause more fondly than my eyebrows.
Maybe menopause and my eyebrows are in the same place, yukking it up over the fact that they ditched me.
Like Boris and Natasha, they’re no-goodniks.
I’m realizing now that it’s odd to think about being past menopause, only because you never hear anything about it.
Past menopause must be Hag Central.
Of course, you hear a lot about perimenopause, which is what happens before menopause, when you’re still young enough to matter.
I have younger friends who talk about being in perimenopause, with horror.
Brace yourself, sister.
You’ll be in and out of peri in no time.
Perimenopause is like starter menopause.
It’s warming you up for warming up.
Also, everything you read about perimenopause says that it lasts 10 years, but I don’t believe that for a minute.
I think perimenopause exists because nobody wants to admit they’re in menopause.
Because that sounds too haggy.
Like 40 is the new 50, menopausewise.
Of course, that’s not a medical opinion.
Please remember this is a humor column.
I’m no gynecologist.
I may not even have vagina anymore.
God knows where that girl is these days.
But I’m here to tell you that, even though nobody talks about it, being postmenopausal is great.
You don’t sweat, flash, or feel hot anymore.
You’re finally cool.
In fact, being a hag is very cool.
Look for Lisa and Francesca’s new humor collection, “I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere But the Pool,” and Lisa’s new Rosato & DiNunzio novel, “Exposed,” in stores now. firstname.lastname@example.org.