Dame Droopy

My day started with someone calling me sir and it made me a little sad—sad because it’s not the first time I’ve been mistaken for a man. Could have been the ball cap I was wearing, maybe the readers at the end of my large nose, my disappearing lips or the fact I have one and half eyebrows, uneven skin tone and a couple of long white whiskers protruding defiantly from my chinny-chin-chin. Breathe. 

Rolling with the punches, I pretended not to hear, it was really okay, and then I took a selfie during a texting conversation with my daughter and I saw it. I did kinda look like a dude. Menopause has stolen every ounce of femininity I once possessed, not that I’ve lifted a finger to try and retrieve it. I don’t care. I feel better than ever! I am resigned to white hair, dry skin, deflated boobs and zero collagen—I’m literally droopy the hound. I refer you to the picture if you’re thinking, huh?

I still have nice feet though, focusing on the good y’all. Maybe I’ll join FeetFinders before those go too. Hey, they’ll never know those gorgeous feet belong to menopausal man-me. Ha! 

Be well.