The Crone in White

Not the exact quilt, but you get the idea.

It's soft, the color of snow, and incredibly cozy to snuggle into.  That's a candid review of my new shabby-chic quilt, purchased at Tar-jay last week.  I lucked out.  At Christmas I couldn't think of a dang thing I wanted, and so I waited and told everyone when the right thing came along, I'd grab it myself and call it a belated gift from the family.  And when I saw this amazing, soft and comfortable quilt in the bedding section, I bought it and two matching pillow shams before you could turn around twice. 

But this is not going to be a post about quilting, or even shopping for quilts.  No, this post is about the topic of menopause. Because unless I was officially in it, I never would have bought snow-white bedding, for reasons obvious to any woman under 50....it's just too risky, especially when you're in the time of peri-menopause, when your monthly cycle is anything but regular, and often checks in more than once a month (with absolutely no notice -- how rude).


Too much information?  Sorry.  Anyway, it turns out the only real cure for the issues of menopause is the oldest home remedy in history:  Time.  And now I'm happy to say I'm on the far side of all the female inconveniences I've had to deal with most of my life, and can own a white quilt if I so wish.  It feels good, friends.  No one will ever ask me again if I'm crying, irritable, or snappy because of a "female problem."  Now they know the truth.  If I'm snappy or irritable, my problem is probably with THEM, not my hormones.


But I digress.  It was this lovely, indulgent purchase which made me realize that, despite its bad rap, menopause gives back double for anything it takes away.  True, we lose the ability to grow a baby inside us, and we may sometimes feel like Mount Vesuvius is erupting in our solar plexus and spreading up to our faces and extremities several times a day.  But we can buy white comforters and wear white pants whenever we choose.  And if we lived in a small village somewhere more primitive and less youth-fixated than our present day society, we'd be considered a crone, a.k.a a WISE WOMAN.  Younger women would come to our huts and ask our advice about their colicky babies, their grumpy husband, or their inability to get their stews to thicken properly. I would love that. My advice would not be based on being immune to any of those things, but the fact that I've learned how to live with them, and have gotten beyond all the drama most of life is made up of. And because I'm past all that, I would finally be considered an "elder" of the tribe, who is steady and trusted and a source of good advice and sound ideas. 


And I could wear white.  I would sleep in it, decorate every surface of my hut in it every day of the year, just because I could.  Hooray for white.  Hooray for being a post-menopausal wise-woman.  Hooray for the crone in white.