Episode 2: In the Beginning, Part 2

Episode 2: In the Beginning, Part 2

Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"

Michael (that's my ex-husband — well, it's my ex-husband's pseudonym ‘cause I'm changing all names to protect the innocent, not that there are very many except the kids.) You know what? Fuck Michael. His name is Jeffrey, and he can get hit by a bus for all I care. Suddenly he's getting really in to pick-up and drop-off. Which would be nice if he had ever been that guy before. And he's doing play dates again, nice — except weird. (You wanna know where he gets the time, right? I have one word (okay, two) for you — "movie producer." That means he doesn't do anything all day but can pretend he has a job.)

Anyway, I'm all like, "Honey, how great that you've evolved. We've got a real working partnership here, blah blah blah." And he's cutting his hair more often and he gets new clothes (I know, I know) plus his taste is somewhere between Tommy Bahama and Jimmy Buffett. Why do men in their fifties suddenly think flowered shirts and toeless sandals are attractive? Jeffrey's never had a pedicure. Sandals - not sexy. To make a long, predictable story short, I find this cell phone in his sock drawer.

(Actually, it's a drawer with socks and all sorts of other shit like to-do lists that never get to-done and loose change and papers that need to be dealt with, I guess you could call it the "sock it away" until hell freezes over drawer) — anyway, I find this nice little Razor phone in there. It's red. Like a bat phone.

Huh, I say to myself. Why would he have a red bat phone in his sock it away drawer? I don't keep phones in drawers. I lose phones and I break phones and I always want the phone I don't have like the iPhone but I don't keep phones in drawers. Plus I know he has the Blackberry I bought him for his birthday. The bastard.

So I open the phone. I swear it has a...smell. A smell like something bad has happened here. And I scroll through the numbers and well, well, well. All the calls on the phone — to the same 310 area code. So I call it. And the rest is history. Turns out he was banging this mom at the Little Red Schoolhouse. There's a fairytale for you. Three kids (one set of twins, the poor dear) and an oblivious husband of her own. Guess Jeffrey and this chick (who shall at this juncture remain nameless until I choose to otherwise air her dirty laundry) were having "play dates" too.

Anyway, I kicked him out, the little shit. And everybody knows. And her husband, well let's just say their pre-nup ain't worth diddley anymore. Which brings me back to where we are. Where I am. Single mom of two boys, six and three years old. With a "kinda job" and baby weight to lose (yeah, a three-year-old still qualifies as a baby, you wanna fight about it?!) and jeans that don't fit, ovaries that are drying up and an empty bed that isn't really empty because the boys sleep there now.

And here's the thing. I say, "Fuck it." Who cares if I've sweated through nine nightgowns in seven days? Those other moms aren't getting any and I'm single enough to have sex with the pool man and his brother. Who cares if suddenly I can barely see? They're hiding reading glasses in their Prada bags and I'm like the queen of perceptive. Who cares if I'm out of the demo - I don't need fucking contraception any more!!

Here's my dirty little secret. Menopause isn't the end of the world, my friends, it's a new beginning. Maybe it's not the beginning you planned for. Maybe it's a kind of suck-y beginning. And maybe your husband cheated on you and you're alone and maybe no one prepared you, or talked about it, and maybe you're even embarrassed. Or scared. Or just plain pissed off that you're not twenty and staring down at some dude eating chocolate sauce off your abs while Springsteen blares in the background. But don't be any of those things. Or if you are, give it a chance. Because this is my secret. The beginning of anything — even something that comes with a side of hot flashes (note to self: in our world "hot" just means "sexy") — even that can be pretty damn good.

Who am I to know these things? I'm Esme. I'm forty-five and I'm a single mom. I'm Esme and I'm scared shitless and I'm happier than I've ever been. I'm Esme, pleased to meet you. I'm Esme (that's with an accent on the last "e" by the way) I'm Esme and woo-hoo!! I'm starting the ride of my goddamn menopausal life.

To read "Hot Flashes" Part I, click here.