Flying the White Flag

It has a rather insideous onset...that post-menopausal desire to live in a white house with nothing in it. A place where dirt has no place to hide and every possession has its rightful place in the cupboard, tucked away and out of sight.

I am not sure why this happened as I've had a long colourful personal history. But I hear the same sentiments expressed from our menopausal patients, one of whom told me she threatened to divorce her husband if he didn't get rid of his workshop clutter.

I solved that problem a few years ago when I moved Tony's workshop into our newly constructed white garage. No noise, no dust as far as I am aware of. We got white carpet, and painted the walls white - except for the bottom 18 inches which are the colour of kids fingerprints, dogs noseprints and applesauce. White sheets, white towels, white window coverings, white flowers in the garden. Peaceful, serene, unharmed by bleach.

I became addicted to white cotton shirts that make the hot flash bearable. In the short intermission between discarding my Always pads and not yet requiring Depends it became safe to wear white pants again - I bought 3 pairs. My hair turns white. I take calcium and develop anemia.

But lately I've had some clues that white isn't always right. My manicurist stares at my white nails and in a "snap out of it" tone of voice says I am painting them red. The architect who visits our white house last week says "it was more interesting when it was red". My white pants and shirt gets slimed by 3 dogs and two kids. The white floors get washed daily, the black granite floor gets washed every couple of weeks. The smell of bleach is giving me a headache.

I ponder my garden. The white is beautiful against the lush green trees but it lacks pizzaz, hotness. It's too decorator white. And there is no amount of white you can dress a 2 year old in and expect it to not change colour. Short of building a decontamination room for children and dogs to negotiate through before entering my white house, the garden is coming in...ants, dirt, leaves.

So I am slapping on an estrogen patch, taking an iron pill and planting myself a hot garden this year...red maples, hot pokers, yellow and fushia flowers. I am tossing the white nailpolish in favour of colours that hide the garden dirt in my fingernails. And when we remodel our house once again, my floors are going to the dark side. I'm testing out the theory that what you can't see, won't hurt you.