Deborah Blenkhorn | Cat Ladies and Book Clubs Be Damned?

These days, this is the walk of life: sudden flushes of heat sweeping mercilessly from the forehead downwards, heart palpitations, insomnia, even (and I had always imagined this to be the bete noir of port-drinking old men) gout. Acne to rival a teenager’s. Body odor scarcely masked by “all the perfumes of Arabia,” as Lady Macbeth would say. Rethinking Lady McB as perimenopausal. Gushing, intermittent periods–punctuated by searing abdominal pain and vise-like headaches. The pounds that creep on unceasingly as each year brings its own new chin. Okay, maybe not quite that bad, but close, damn it. What’d they call it in grandma’s day? The Change.

My only hope is to wear lipstick. Believe it or not, if I wear lipstick, everyone says, “You’re looking great these days!” If not, “Oh, you look tired. Is everything okay?”

Every fourth Saturday comes the cosmic respite of community and commiseration with the ladies at the book club. I’ve taken on the role of the default organizer, sending out a cheerful email invite each time. We refer to each other as such, “ladies,” with respect and no sense of irony. Right. No one under 45, and the wine flows freely with the conversation.

At my friend Poppy’s immaculate post-divorce bachelorette pad last week, it was Esi Edugyan’s Washington Black, but inevitably the discussion centred mainly around cats. Cats, for godsake. Such a well-worn trope for women of a certain age, be they with or without functional or dysfunctional husbands and/or children. I’m a dog person, but it’s not just that. It seems as though every time I get something into my head about the great sisterhood of fellow women, reality comes along and bites me in the butt. “Gosh you look tired tonight,” they kept saying (I had forgotten to put on lipstick).

All the brie on the cheese tray couldn’t keep me alert, so I slipped into a reverie, replaying an incident from work. That conversation by the photocopier with a young co-worker at the college. Did he think I was coming on to him? Cringe.

I emerged from these dire contemplations to gauge the book club conversation: still cats.

My mind continued to wander as the book club gals droned on. One of the book club members was absent, the one who was most likely to be a kindred spirit, at least in the don’t-love-cats department. Where was she?

I slunk off to the bathroom to check my email history on my phone. No! I forgot to invite her! Communication isn’t my strong suit these days–though, ironically, I make a living telling others how to do it. Brain fog. They say it’s all part and parcel of The Change.

Abandoning my health-based decision not to drink for the evening, since I’d snagged a ride with someone else, I poured myself a generous glass of sauvignon blanc and downed it quickly.

Cute little critters, cats, damn them all to hell.