That’s because the women I knew in their 50s were cool. Most of them were fit and fabulous; they still knew how to have a good time and weren’t saddled, like me, with a bunch of scenery chewing youngsters.
A few women complained about the menopause, but most of them joked that the term meant they were taking a break from men. My gang of 50 somethings got together regularly at the Press Club and drank litres of wine, smoked like chimneys and held big jobs.
I was in awe.
But, alas, the 50s have been a big disappointment here on St. Laurent Boulevard. The menopause thing has been absolutely excruciating, although, lately I’ve got the symptoms under control.
But it’s the weight issue that’s a killer.
I’ve been exercising like a mad person for eight months and I’ve lost four pounds.
So this week, I doubled the intensity of the exercise by switching ellipticals and I’ve added weights back into my daily regimen.
And I quit drinking for the week.
Yesterday, I put on a pair of pants and they felt tight to me.
“Have I gained weight?” I asked Scott.
He shrugged, as any smart man knows to do.
I got on the scale today and I’d gained a pound and a half!
Right, no drinking, increased exercise, still watching the carbs and I’m gaining weight.
So this morning, I did my work out, came home, had eggs, ham and home fries and a big honkin’ latte.
This afternoon, I’m going to lie on the lounger outside and eat bon bons.
Tonight, I’m putting the margarita back into happy hour.
The girls back at the Press Club were right.
The key to happiness when you’re pre-old is to self-medicate.
Then you simply won’t care.