Nightmare on Sunday

Oil on canvas

30 by 40 cms

As I sweat and sulk my way through menopause, I think about what it means to be fertile for a season: to want to be beautiful, to feel the inexorable tick-tock of the body clock, to preen and self-decorate and fear the scorn and judgment of eligible men. I remember how terrified I was about getting fat, and being left on the shelf.

I think about the person I am becoming on the other side of this madness: harder, less fun, more ambitious, less tolerant. Still terrified about getting fat, although now that is probably more of a practical fear, since growing out of clothes is so unpleasant.

On Sunday night, I have a nightmare about my wedding. I can’t find a dress that fits, and that I like. The only available one is green and black, and, at size 28, I’m pretty sure that it’s too big.

When I wake up, I’m still married, it’s still cold, and I understand why I don’t wear dresses anymore.