fifty shades of green

  I don’t know if it’s my age, or the life stage I’m currently experiencing (menopausal), but I find that these days I take far more pleasure in the fifty shades of green I encounter all around me in the natural environment. Gone are the days, it seems, where I would have been desperate to get my mitts on a copy of the similarly titled racy novel; these days the only titillation I crave is the cosy caress of fleecy pyjamas and being enveloped in the warm toastiness of a goose down duvet. 

In some ways I feel sad that the days of racing hearts, tingling anticipation and the intensity of amorous thrills seem to be behind me. After all, isn’t this what makes us feel alive and vibrant? It is as if the hormone fairy swooped in during the dead of night and stole the last vestiges of my zest and vitality.

For a woman who always took great pleasure from the sensual side of life I’m sad to be waving goodbye to this facet of myself.

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