Everyone knows that pubic hair can turn white, too, right? I spread my legs and gazed down at my genitals, letting out an involuntary sigh. Witnessing undeniable signs of aging is not a pleasant experience. It would feel somewhat ordinary if it were white hair on my head. For a long time now, no matter how much moisturizer I apply, I can’t hide the loose and saggy skin. Even though I go to bed earlier and earlier, I still can’t sleep through the early hours of the morning. Even if I forget other people’s names often, hearing the ophthalmologist say I have presbyopia or even experiencing a gradual reduction in menstrual flow, I thought it was just a matter of time. But the appearance of white pubic hair among the black ones is a different story. It’s strange; I feel somewhat insulted. I hold a pair of tweezers and pluck them out one by one. Even though there’s no chance of anyone catching me, I can’t bear it myself.
People make it sound so simple, saying it’s just because of menopause. That reason explains everything. Digestive problems exacerbated PMS symptoms, and urinary incontinence is all due to menopause. The irritability over trivial matters and the tendency to overreact to unremarkable situations are all based on the same reason. I don’t understand why; I hear the same response when I mention that I find everything bothersome and don’t want to do anything. Otherwise, people ask if it’s “that time of the month.” Menopause seems like some magical remedy that can explain everything. It’s like saying, “Just live with it and accept it.” So, in the end, I tightly shut my mouth and refused to say anything more.
In the early morning, I find myself sitting alone on the couch, staring blankly, also attributed to menopause. But what about the excessive eating and headaches? The constant sensitivity to cold, unexplained cold sweats, chest pains, and diarrhea—should I attribute them to my menstrual cycle or symptoms of menopause? Although all these things are happening to me, I have no clue.
Every morning, the house becomes a mess once everyone in the family leaves. The lid of the condiment jar is left open on the dining table, towels and underwear are scattered untidily in front of the bathroom, clothes spill out of the laundry basket, every power outlet is cluttered with tangled chargers, and books are casually left open on the sofa, causing visual chaos everywhere. No single cabinet or shoe rack door is closed, be it the storage cabinet or the shoe cabinet. I pick up the damp towel, wipe away the puddle of water in front of the bathroom, and then angrily toss it aside. The corners of the toilet are moldy again, soap rolls onto the floor, and my husband, in the early morning, said he would dye his white hair black but ended up splattering hair dye all over the bathtub and tiled floor. There’s shaving powder and a glob of toothpaste on the bathroom sink. Irritation surges within me instantly. After getting ready, I at least expect them to clean up a bit. I’ve been saying this for seventeen years. Fifteen years to my fifteen-year-old son and twelve years to my twelve-year-old daughter, but nothing has changed a single day.
I used to believe that it was my responsibility because they work in the company, study at school, and are still young, so household chores are the duty of a housewife. Although I believe investing my time in my family after a day’s work and returning home is my value, it is ultimately futile. The so-called household chores are done but not visibly noticeable, yet their absence is easily detected. The company gives a monthly salary, and at least the children bring back report cards, but what about me? No one understands me. I don’t want to touch anything, so it’s best to crawl back into the blanket in these moments.
There is the scent of my husband on the pillow. I flip it over, cover my head with the blanket, and slowly caress my lower abdomen and inner thighs. One hand massages my breasts while the other gently rubs my intimate area. I instinctively recall memories from a long time ago, like the night of passion that never developed into a relationship with a senior in college; the twelve-hour exploration of each other’s bodies in a hotel room with my soldier boyfriend after his hundredth day of military service; the memories of making love for the last time with a former lover we once discussed marriage with, but ultimately decided to part ways, carrying a sense of sadness. I increase the pace of my hand’s movements, my breathing becomes rapid, and I exert pressure between my spread legs. Then, at a certain moment, my mind goes blank. I caress my body with even more delicate and gentle strokes to prolong that moment.
Intimacy with my husband is routine, mainly on Saturday nights or early Sunday mornings. The excitement or thrill has long vanished. It’s like having three meals a day, going to bed at night, and waking up in the morning—sexual intercourse twice a month is like a procedure or obligatory matter to prove that we are a legally married couple. Of course, it wasn’t like this from the beginning. Before having children, it used to be a game to explore each other’s sensations, but that was just a temporary phase. My husband is not the kind of man who puts effort into pleasuring. I often feel like he’s merely a person who expels accumulated sperm. Without any foreplay, he rubs my intimate area with his knee, and if I don’t refuse, he inserts himself directly. There is no tenderness or patience whatsoever. After ejaculation, he adjusts his disheveled breathing and heads straight to the bathroom. Usually, my husband only takes off his lower half, so all I have to do on the empty bed is wipe myself with a tissue, put on my underwear and sleepwear, and it’s over. Before he lies back next to me again, I turn to face the wall, pretending to be asleep. Although I constantly feel unsatisfied, I don’t show it to my husband. Honestly, I don’t even know how to express it. I tidy up the blanket and let out a deep sigh.
I have a vague sense, realizing that I will grow old like this. From now on, I will casually pluck out the white pubic hair, and the children will nonchalantly explore various parts of the world I have never experienced. And I will calmly accept that reality. My dreams at twenty, the future I hoped for at thirty, will ultimately not be preserved in memory.