The Sex Toy That Changed My Wednesday Afternoon — And Other Revelations
Feelgood Friday: Permission to Enjoy Midlife
I am fifty-five years old and I have never felt more entitled to a good time.
There.
I said it.
And seeing as this is the very first Feelgood Friday, I think we should establish some ground rules.
This isn't going to be the fluffy corner of Moolife.
I'm not spending Fridays posting pictures of bloody peonies with Choose Happiness written over the top.
No.
Feelgood Friday is about pleasure.
And I mean pleasure in the broadest, funniest, most ordinary and glorious sense of the word.
Food.
Sex.
Music.
Art.
Walking.
Dancing.
Friendship.
Laughing until a little bit of wee comes out.
Wearing something completely inappropriate for your age.
Buying the expensive lipstick.
Getting into bed at 8pm because you bloody want to.
Eating pudding.
Turning your phone off.
Skinny dipping.
Painting.
Sitting in the sunshine doing absolutely bugger all.
And yes...
SEX TOYS.
Because something rather wonderful happened to me on a completely unremarkable Wednesday afternoon.
I discovered that perhaps my sex life hadn't disappeared after all.
It had just been waiting for me to open the right bloody box.
Let's Talk About the Dry Vagina
Oh yes.
We're going there.
Because this is Moolife, and women who refuse to suffer politely do not whisper the word vagina like we're ordering something illegal from behind the counter.
Menopause can make things dry.
And I don't mean slightly less dewy.
I mean the kind of dry that can have you looking at your partner thinking:
"Well, that's it then. Lovely knowing you. Sex has officially left the building."
Your libido may have packed its bags.
Your vagina appears to have joined the National Trust.
And suddenly you're wondering whether your sex life is now going to consist entirely of remembering the good old days while putting your pyjamas on at 7:30 and asking whether anyone wants a cup of tea.
Then...
BOOM.
You discover the box of toys.
Ladies.
WHY DID NOBODY SEND THE BLOODY MEMO?
Because midlife sexual pleasure doesn't have to disappear.
Sometimes it just needs renegotiating.
A little curiosity.
A sense of humour.
Some decent lubricant.
And perhaps a piece of equipment that arrives in discreet packaging but deserves its own bloody trophy cabinet.
Suddenly the vagina you thought had retired has made an unexpected comeback and is behaving more like the Trevi
Fountain.
And you're thinking:
"Cancel my plans. I may be some time."
What's not to bloody like?
Get yourself a raunchy book.
Close the bedroom door.
Put the phone on silent.
Close your eyes.
Forget the washing.
Forget the shopping.
Forget whether somebody needs picking up.
Forget what your stomach looks like.
Forget whether your eyebrows currently resemble two elderly caterpillars having an argument.
And allow yourself to enjoy the moment.
Or moments.
Because pleasure doesn't have to involve anybody else.
You are allowed to enjoy your own body.
At 35.
At 45.
At 55.
At 75.
There isn't a woman from the council arriving on your 50th birthday to confiscate your libido.
Being a midlife woman doesn't mean your sexuality has expired.
Quite the opposite.
There can be something incredibly liberating about reaching an age where you finally start discovering what YOU actually enjoy rather than worrying about how you look while enjoying it.
And that got me thinking.
When Did We Become Frightened of Having a Good Time?
Women spend enormous portions of their lives being responsible.
We remember birthdays.
We organise Christmas.
We know where the passports are.
We make appointments.
We check everyone got home safely.
We buy toilet roll before the toilet roll runs out.
We emotionally monitor entire bloody households.
We work.
We care.
We worry.
We plan.
We hold hands in hospitals.
We survive grief.
We navigate menopause.
We carry invisible lists around in our heads containing approximately 4,783 things nobody else appears to know need doing.
And then somebody asks:
"What do you want?"
And half of us haven't got a bloody clue.
That's interesting, isn't it?
Because perhaps one of the great midlife revelations isn't just:
Who am I now?
Perhaps it's:
What do I actually ENJOY?
Not what am I good at.
Not what is productive.
Not what keeps me healthy.
Not what makes my family happy.
Not what looks good on Instagram.
What makes ME feel bloody good?
We've Made Pleasure Suspicious
Especially for women.
Rest has to be earned.
Food has to be healthy.
Exercise has to burn something.
Hobbies should become side hustles.
Sex should look a certain way.
Bodies should look a certain way.
Ageing should be resisted at all bloody costs.
Even relaxation has somehow become another task we're supposed to optimise.
"Have you completed your 20-minute mindfulness practice today?"
No, Sandra.
But I ate a Magnum in the car listening to Fleetwood Mac and nobody knew where I was for twenty minutes.
It was bloody magnificent.
That counts.
Painting something that nobody will ever buy counts.
Walking without recording the steps counts.
Sitting in the garden doing nothing counts.
Laughing with your girlfriends until your mascara is halfway down your face counts.
Dancing around the kitchen counts.
Buying something ridiculous because it makes you happy counts.
An afternoon alone with a locked bedroom door and absolutely no intention of being disturbed...
THAT BLOODY COUNTS TOO.
Menopause Can Really Mess With Pleasure
Your body changes.
Desire can change.
Confidence can wobble.
Your vagina can become dry and uncomfortable.
Things that used to feel good might not feel the same anymore.
You might look in the mirror and wonder who the woman looking back at you actually is.
And sometimes the answer isn't to mourn everything that's changed.
Sometimes it's:
GET CURIOUS.
Not judgemental.
Curious.
What feels good now?
What doesn't?
What have I stopped doing?
What do I miss?
What have I never tried because I was too embarrassed?
What makes me laugh?
What makes me feel sexy?
What makes me peaceful?
What makes me feel alive?
Because I don't want to spend the second half of my life constantly trying to become a more acceptable version of myself.
I want to bloody LIVE IT.
That's What Feelgood Friday Is About
Not pretending everything is wonderful.
Life isn't.
There will still be grief.
There will still be shit Wednesdays.
There will be aching joints, difficult relationships, work stress, menopause, disappointment and mornings where your face appears to have slept separately from the rest of your body.
Feelgood isn't toxic positivity.
It's not:
GOOD VIBES ONLY.
Bugger good vibes only.
Human beings get the whole bloody emotional spectrum.
Feelgood Friday is something different.
It's saying:
There is difficult stuff in my life AND I am still allowed pleasure.
That's a very different sentence.
I can be grieving and laugh.
I can be menopausal and sexy.
I can have a changing body and enjoy it.
I can be responsible and occasionally irresponsible.
I can be 55 and start something completely new.
I can dance badly.
I can wear the ridiculous thing.
I can book the trip.
I can change my mind.
I can have sex.
I can not have sex.
I can buy the bloody toy.
I can eat the cake.
I can spend Sunday in my pyjamas watching absolute television shite.
I can decide that something doesn't need to improve me in any conceivable way.
I can do it simply because I enjoy it.
And perhaps that's one of the greatest freedoms of midlife.
We're beginning to understand that time isn't infinite.
Not in a depressing way.
In a:
WAKE THE BLOODY HELL UP, WOMAN.
kind of way.
I don't want to reach 80 and realise I spent decades postponing joy until I was thinner, richer, less busy, more confident, less menopausal or until everybody else had finally stopped needing something from me.
Bugger later.
I'm here now.
Slightly creaky.
Occasionally sweaty.
Sporting one industrial-strength chin hair.
Probably carrying emergency tweezers.
But HERE.
And increasingly determined to have a bloody good time while I am.
So here's your first Feelgood Friday question:
What Makes You Feel Good That Serves Absolutely No Bloody Purpose?
Not productive.
Not healthy.
Not useful.
Not for your partner.
Not for your children.
Not for your boss.
Not because somebody on Instagram told you it was good for your nervous system.
Just because you bloody enjoy it.
And when you've thought of it, ask yourself another question:
When exactly did I decide I wasn't allowed enough of it?
Because maybe midlife isn't where the fun stops.
Maybe this is where we finally stop asking permission to have it.
Buy the lipstick.
Eat the Magnum.
Read the raunchy book.
Dance around the kitchen.
Close the curtains.
Lock the bedroom door.
And if a discreet little box happens to revolutionise an otherwise completely ordinary Wednesday afternoon?
Well...
Consider it personal development.
Welcome to Feelgood Friday, Moos.
Women who refuse to suffer politely live here.
And apparently...
we have very good Wednesdays too.
Love from Missy Moo x
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