The Tapes, The Tapes Are Calling

“Shut up, she tells her monkey mind. Please shut up, you picker of nits, presser of bruises, counter of losses, fearer of failures, collector of grievances future and past.” ― Leni Zumas, Red Clocks

The Dinner Party by Ainura Barron

I went to a fun party the other night, where a writer I’d interviewed on my podcast a few years ago didn’t recognize me. She emailed me later to apologize and I said, “It’s okay, I’ve undergone a radical transformation, LOL.” And it was okay. Her apology was genuine, and I didn’t remember being offended.

During the pandemic, exercise – deep, sweaty exercise – was the way I coped with anxiety. Now that I’m experiencing daily menopausal anxiety, exercise is the only thing that alleviates the tightness in my chest, the fluttering - and on bad days, the alarming pounding. (Yes, I have discussed it with my doctor and it’s not cardiac-related, it’s very common to have varying levels of physical anxiety during menopause. I have several friends who experienced it and went to the hospital, thinking they were having a heart attack. I’m sharing this here because it’s yet another thing a lot of people aren’t aware of, because menopausal health concerns are often a taboo subject and under-researched, or dismissed as hysteria, still).

It’s true, I’ve undergone a radical transformation in appearance. My body looks different, my hair remains pandemic-long. I guess it’s understandable that people who haven’t seen me for a couple years might not recognize me, though I like to think my distinctively loud, braying voice would tip them off. I’ve always been loud and outspoken – I know I’m not for everybody. Not being recognized was a reminder that people identify you by your appearance and not your voice, not your personality, no matter how strong.

An interaction that bugged me, however, was a comment made in passing by someone I’ve known for thirty years. Someone I consider a friend, if not an especially close one. This person walked by me and said, “I’m going to need a list of all the cosmetic procedures you’ve had!” And then she just kept on walking. I’m sure I laughed, I tend to laugh when taken off guard, but because she just… kept walking… there wasn’t time for me to respond. In the days since, I’ve wondered: had she stopped to acknowledge me beyond her idea of a joke, I guess, what I’d have said. Something like, “Hey, we’ve known each other for a long time and when you said that, I felt like our history meant nothing.” Or maybe just, “Wow. Really?” Or, since both of us have gone through major life changes during the pandemic: “Yes, my appearance has changed, but I’ve changed, too. What’s up with you?” I suppose there’s the possibility that she was completely uninterested beyond using me as a prop. Okay.

With the return of socializing comes the return of “The Tapes,” as I call the things I ruminate on when I wake up at 3:45 AM on the dot every morning for some reason. I lie in the dark and replay incidents in my head and feel stupid or foolish, marinating in my own awkwardness, dreaming up clever rejoinders I coulda/woulda/shoulda said. I’m philosophical about The Tapes, I am so used to them by now. I’m almost comfortable with my own mind’s insistence on humiliating me. It makes me shake my head, there in the dark, and laugh. Over the years, I’ve grown adept at shrugging off self-criticism. The Tapes just don’t have the authority they used to. Though I’ve suffered from both since childhood, insomnia and rumination are also symptoms of menopause. At long last, I’ve aged into an explanation!

It bugged me a little that I laughed at her remark, but it bugged me more that she just breezed past. These days, I’m less of a gadfly, I don’t hopscotch around a room as much as I used to. My friendship circle has tightened to a group of trusted folks with whom I can be radically honest. We shoot the shit, but we are not dismissive of one another. We joke, yet we are sincere. We check before seeing each other in person about how we are feeling about indoor/outdoor gatherings and mask wearing, and we respect one another’s preferences. This brings an intentionality to our relationships: when can I see you, how can we both feel safe? We don’t comment on appearances, though we are quick to ooh and ahh over someone’s amazing shoes, or say, a pair of fuchsia crushed velvet pants from Target. We talk about books and politics and music, we gossip about the latest literary or show biz dust-up, and compare notes on our exes. We confess whom we think about while masturbating. We exalt in art. We share: food, resources, joy, professional connections, streaming recommendations, grief, what’s playing on our respective Tapes when we awake in the middle of the night. We’ve learned that friendship has a deep and precious flow, unlike a superficial comment dropped like a boulder on one’s way to the bar.

Lately, when The Tapes kick in at 3:45 AM, instead of thinking I’m not for everybody, I am able to decide that person isn’t for me. Because I have other people I am 100% sure are for me. I am for me.

But since you asked, old friend, here’s the list:

1.   a little Botox between the eyes

2.   IPL/laser facial

Next time, let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk. Let’s take our time and shoot the shit. If you want to. Here I am.

And you'll sit beside me, and we'll look, not at visions, but at realities. - Edith Wharton