Monday Mystic: Menopause Poem by Adair Lara

Adair Lara is our Monday Mystic for Jan 31, 2011. She sent this phresh poem to me today (see below), and got me thinking I need to banish people-pleasing from my life far in advance of menopause. You? And start self basting in this Bulgarian hotel I call my body.

Adair connects me to another time and place –  to the refreshingly honest voice of Annie Lamott’s Operating Instructions, which I clutched to my bosom like a bible before my kids were born. Finally, a mom who tells the truth. Now the kids are getting older and a new part of the women’s life cycle presents itself to me… namely, hormonal chaos. Actually, pregnancy and post-partum was rather hormonally chaotic too, but in a different way. I had a precious new life that kept me focused.

Adair Lara reminds me of the rugged, hilarious, wise and seamed women I love from Alaska who live fully, boldly and without qualification. She is the author of 13 bold books, including the most recent: Naked, Drunk and Writing (Ten Speed Press, 2010).


The mother of all wake-up calls

After the hormones wear off like party drugs

The house is  rewired

By a blind and maybe drunk electrician

Sparks are flying

The thermostat’s out of whack

It’s like living in a Bulgarian hotel


Still. The craziest hotel has its dance band.

I see you there in your little black dress

And little black mood.

You got back from Bangkok with new eyes,

just in time for your first granddaughter

to be born with your old eyes.

You can now turn your head side to side

Say no in several languages.

Oh, the forgotten pleasure

Of not pleasing.

You  who skipped Ivanhoe and parallelograms

take night classes and sit up front.

Making  yourself  sharp and sure for

that woman in the glass.


The to-do list has changed

Do  become self-basting.

Do  buy yourself roses

And hang one over an ear.

Don’t   finish books if you don’t like ‘em

Don’t  examine thighs in tooth-paste flecked glass

Do  stroll in the dark up Kilimanjaro

Write books start tea shops paint wild canvases? — Adair Lara