Menopause. Discuss. What – no takers? You’re all thinking about it. You’re all dealing with it. And if you’re not dealing with it, you will be dealing with it. Your husbands and lovers and kids and friends and parents and the people you work with, they’ll all be dealing with it too.But no one wants to talk about it, right? We can talk about sex. Sex is hot. Sex is cool. Sex means we’re still…sexy. Or at least functional. ‘Cause one of the dirty little secrets about menopause – not so functional any more. And okay, so who wants to think about sex as a “functional” thing anyway? Sex is spontaneous and dirty. Sex is…all the time. Whenever, wherever you want it. Sex is like the movies. It’s like going to a PG show and then suddenly finding yourself at the NC17.And then you turn…gasp…forty. Or forty-five. Or fifty-eight if you’re like my mother but she was a ballet dancer disciplined enough to will menopause away. And little by little…not so much like the movies any more. Or maybe…not the movie you meant to see. A boring movie. A movie that just doesn’t get…going. A movie with no CLIMAX. And it’s not just the kids and the mortgage and the job that are your problem. It’s your goddamn body, hell bent on embarrassing you at every turn. It’s those pesky little hairs that turn up in inappropriate places. It’s your brains that came out with your breast milk and never returned. It’s…here’s a dirty word…CELLULITE. It’s the guy or girl -- or both -- in the bed next to you snoring. It’s a horror movie. That’s what it is. But I’m here to tell you there’s hope. That sometimes what you read is true. That fifty is the new thirty-five, that hot guys lust after chicks like you and that sexy lingerie looks good even on boobs that fed a family of four. Who am I to know this stuff? Well, I’m Esme. And this is my story. First things first. I’m tired of telling lies. I’m tired of pretending that I’m sad all the time. Like, “Woo-hoo, I kicked my husband out. Poor little me.” It’s like I’m some kind of modern day Hester Prynne except instead of a blood red “A” on my Burburry sweater it’s that “M” word. “M” for menopause. Little secret? “Death. War. George Bush.” That’s scary. Menopause -- not such a scary word. First let’s dissect. “Men” dash “O” dash “Pause.” Translation -- either a reason for men to take pause, or an end to those fun-filled days of getting your period.But you know how it is. Everyone comes up to me with that look in their eyes. Pity. Relief that it isn’t them. All those scary chicks at preschool who wouldn’t talk to me – suddenly, they want to be my best friend. They tell me about sample sales. Offer play dates with their nannies. Slip me the name of their private Pilates instructor who, “I’m not kidding will TRANSFORM your BEING.”Truth? There’s nothing better for friendship than someone who makes you feel superior. Menopause Mary. That’s me. I’m the gal who makes you feel better about your life. I’m the one whose husband chose another chick who wasn’t “going through the change.” Now, I’m not talking about a horror movie where Lon Cheney would lock himself in a room, grow fangs and facial hair – wait…maybe it IS the same. I’m talking about the mother of all changes. Anyway, I’m the one who found the cell phone with all the calls to that “private” number. I’m the one with that cavernous spot in the bed next to her. I’m the one who’s not getting any. Who’s never gonna get any again. I’m the one whose gonna start a menagerie of pigs and parrots because “They live for like eighty years, are smarter than dogs and will never ever leave me.” You’re better than me because god forbid anything like this would ever happen to you. You’re superior. Your hair color is hipper your body is tighter your brain isn’t turning to mush because you’re on that wizard of Dr. Oz diet. You’re gonna live to be one hundred, never look a day older than thirty and still have sex with twenty-five year old boys. You’re a better woman all around. Except secretly, you’re just like me.