These days I heard a woman saying that, for years, she hid her husband’s climacteric. The revelation took place in a tragicomic way. They were on vacation in a mountain town, the temperature hovering around seven degrees. In the middle of the night, she woke up with the typical hot flush of this hormonal phase.
In a few seconds, the hot flush spread from his chest to his entire body, causing an urgent need to cool off. She got out from under the blanket, took off her nightgown, but as the room was heated by the heater, it wasn’t enough. He pulled open the sliding door and walked down to the open in just his underwear, opening his arms to the dew of the night.
It was this scene that the husband saw, immediately after rubbing his eyes, awakened by the noise of the glass door. What was your wife doing almost naked, at three in the morning, with her arms outstretched, outside?
a) He communed with the goddess Venus.
b) He showed sleepwalking.
c) She came back ecstatic from the neighbor’s bed.
d) He sought judgment.
At that moment, it is likely that none of these excuses occurred to her. Or even have, but she preferred to tell the truth right away, already exhausted from hiding it so much.
What impresses me most about this story is this: that she hid the climacteric. As if the suffering caused by nature wasn’t enough, which doesn’t know how much we’ve evolved and treats the woman who stops ovulating like a card out of the deck, depriving her of the hormones that lubricate life. As if the hot flashes, insomnia, mood swings caused by a lack of progesterone and estrogen weren’t enough. As if fatigue and the decrease in libido caused by low testosterone weren’t enough. As if memory loss, skin elasticity, hair loss, increased blood fat, increased likelihood of having a heart attack weren’t enough. She still thought that she should go through all these symptoms in silence, in the solitude of her medicine bottles, pretending to be forever young.
As my friend Dadá Coelho says, God can only be misogynistic. And the greatest proof of this is the climacteric. A society that gives men a throne to age in peace, cultivating their belly and their baldness, and suggests that women hide their aging is really the image and likeness of misogyny.
We don’t need to be like that. We can (or can’t) soften the marks of time with botox and pancake, deceive the climacteric with hormone replacement, do as many plastic surgeries as we want without masking the irrefutable fact that we are getting older. The enviable fact of getting older, because it’s true: time makes us better where it matters most, the head. And the only other option to growing old is death.
Therefore, when a man thinks the passage of time is bad for a woman, it is good to remember that the problem is not the passage of time. It’s in the man. In this man’s intellectual and emotional limitations. In that case, I recommend the woman to get up, take off her clothes, open the door and run, naked and horny, far away.
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