I met my boyfriend when he was playing Bach in the park. I was taking my usual jog past London zoo and around the Regent’s Park boating lake when I was stopped in my tracks by the most beautiful music. Wafting across the rose garden was an exquisite guitar rendition of Bach’s prelude in E major. When the final notes hung in the air like gossamer, I congratulated the musician. A twinkly-eyed bloke smiled up at me. “Ah, no bother,” he said in a soft Irish burr.
At the sound of his mellifluous, velvety voice, my heart beat so loudly I felt as though it was coming through stereo speakers. His eyes seemed to smoke their way into me. I stared at him for what I estimate to be about, oh, a decade, but was probably only two seconds, before asking him for coffee. Pathetic, I know. A romcom “meet-cute” like this is not just cheesy; it’s deep-fried Brie in a bechamel sauce on a bed of melted cheddar.
I was in the fraught process of divorcing my husband of 28 years and had been warned of the man drought. Yes, I could join a dating website, but any available fella would only be interested in a woman 20 to 30 years younger, friends counselled. To blokes my age, I would be invisible, immaterial, as relevant as Monaco is on world politics. Clearly, the only time I’d be naked in front of a stranger ever again would be at the morgue with a tag on my toe.
A divorcee in my pilates class advised that if I wanted to get back on the dating scene, I had to exercise manically, inject collagen, abstain from cake and crisps … oh, and lie constantly about my advanced age. “How old are you?” She scrutinised my wrinkled visage, reading between the literal lines.
“Hmmm, I’m not sure, as clearly a camel ate the Dead Sea scrolls where my birth is recorded,” I joshed. When she didn’t even crack a smile, I added: “What about the je ne sais quoi?”
“‘Je ne sais quoi’ is just French for a weak pelvic floor and a strong bank balance,” she cautioned. Her message was clear: finding a lover in later life was as likely as Hannibal Lecter opening a vegetarian restaurant.
The many articles I devoured about dating for mature women backed up this bleak scenario. The overall impression was that I’d begin by looking for a man who was solvent, sexy, handsome, capable, kind and with a preference for at least three types of lettuce in his salads … then, a few fruitless months later, settle for any fella who had his own hair and teeth. In most novels, mature women fare no better, dying of despair in dismal flats before being eaten by their cats.
Well, I’m 67 and I’ve been living with my Celtic maestro, who is seven years younger than me, for eight happy, harmonious years now. My female friends in their 60s are also the opposite of that tragic trope – most of them are swinging off a chandelier with a toyboy between their teeth. Good sex is about being relaxed in your skin, and by this age we women know what we want and are not afraid to ask for it. I do all my research in a scientific, in-depth fashion – over cocktails with girlfriends. And what I’ve gleaned, during many informal sex surveys, is that orgasms get longer and stronger postmenopause.
Why? Well, for women, life is in two acts – the trick is surviving the interval, which is the menopause, when you sweat more than a royal reading the Epstein files. Even worse is the brain fog, loss of sex drive and erosion of confidence. Not to forget the rollercoaster mood swings. Why did the menopausal woman cross the road? To kill the chicken.
But as soon as I started HRT, all symptoms evaporated. Boosted by this hormonal rocket fuel, postmenopause has turned out to be the best time of my life. No period cramps, no pregnancy scares, plus you’ve got all that tampon money to spend. What’s more, women can put ourselves first for the first time. Once the kids leave home, you can stop being tethered to the hearth by your heart and your apron strings – and come into your true self.
For most of our lives, females are far too polite. Brought up to be decorative and demure, all the research shows that when men and women start talking at the same time, women always pull back. But once the “Oh, fuck it, I’m 50” gene kicks in, we no longer care what people think about us. And it’s totally liberating.
In my latest novel, The Sisterhood Rules, estranged twins are forced back together when their mother goes missing. They track her down to what they think is a Swiss Dignitas clinic. Hearing drums, the sisters suspect some kind of end-of-life ritual and go bashing down through the woods … only to discover their 69-year-old mother dancing naked around a fire pit with a 39-year-old alpine horn player. Their mum maintains that the best way not to feel old is to feel a man 30 years your junior every night. Her motto? Never put off till tomorrow anyone you could be doing today.
And I agree. A 60th birthday is nature’s way of telling a woman to drink more champers and do more horizontal tango. My girlfriends in their sexties – sorry, 60s – are vibrant, funny, adventurous and embracing their second act with pluck, panache and aplomb. Whether it’s climbing Everest, canoeing the Amazon, backpacking through Europe, tap dancing on table tops or taking a hot new lover.
“Scientists report that sex with a younger man is good for your heart,” my widowed friend Jenny attests. “Did I say scientists? I meant middle-aged women!”
In short, women don’t give up sex when we get old – we get old when we give up sex. Recently embarked on her third marriage, Davina McCall, 58, concurs. “I’m having the greatest time of my life. I feel like my life started at 50 and I think that what Mother Nature takes away in terms of youth and bearing children, she gives you back in wisdom.”
“I’ve always been a bit mouthy and opinionated and fought for things,” Mariella Frostrup, 63, confides over cocktails. “Now I feel much more in control of what I want and how I want to achieve it. I feel much less fearful of judgment. I know what I want to change, so I feel an enormous liberation.”
“Fomo is an absolute nightmare when you’re young,” adds Penny Smith, 67. “But by this age, you know what you like. You know your own mind. You can say no to that heavy metal gig or bungee jump. Only the presence of Pierce Brosnan or Meryl Streep could sway you to change your mind.”
Experts agree that the postmenopausal years can bring distinct psychological advantages, especially around autonomy, identity and emotional wellbeing. They frame this phase as less about loss and more about the joy of finding yourself unfettered from decades of duties and expectations. The author of The Wisdom of Menopause, Dr Christiane Northrup, explains it as a “time of awakening – a time when women reclaim their energy, creativity and power”.
Dr Gail Sheehy argues that this period often coincides with a renewed sense of purpose and personal reinvention. In her book New Passages, she states: “For many women, the postmenopausal years are the most productive and fulfilling of their lives.”
The neuropsychiatrist Dr Louann Brizendine attributes this increase in clarity and resilience to the fact that “after menopause, many women feel freed from the emotional volatility driven by reproductive hormones”.
I remember my mother and my aunties in a cardiganed coven in the corner of the kitchen, whispering about “the change” as though Voldemort was coming. My generation has taken the stigma out of menopause, but much of the discourse is still negative. And yet numerous studies reveal that women in their 50s, 60s and 70s are healthier, happier, sexier and more financially independent today than they have ever been. Postmenopausal women want to make the most of their friends, experiences and libidos. And, yes, while it’s delicious to be whisked off your feet by a knight in shining Armani, we’re also happy to stand on our own two Birkenstock sandals.
If a woman is healthy in middle age, then she has a good chance of living well into her 90s, which means there are a hell of a lot of escapades still to be enjoyed. Basically, ageing is just another word for living, and so much better than the alternative. So don’t let another moment slip past unembraced. Giving up fun, flirtation and sex doesn’t increase your longevity – it just feels that way.
So, postmenopausal women, take heart, because you are undeniably in your prime. Now all you have to do is to Go Forth and be Fabulous. Hey, if not now, when? Let Adventure Before Dementia be your motto. Not that I’m making light of that terrible disease, but you never know what fate has in store, so I suggest you carpe diem like there’s no tomorrow. Can’t wait to see you the dancefloor.
But now, if you’ll excuse me, my boyfriend has just run my bubble bath and poured me a cocktail to sip while he serenades me with Bach preludes. Oh, and did I mention that he’s also cooked dinner? As I like to contribute, I’ll provide dessert – me, on a bed of meringue. What can I say but bon appetit?
