Dear reproductive system,

I would begin by asking how you are, but that’s unnecessary, as you have never hesitated to express yourself. From my sore boobs a good week before you begin your monthly redecorations, to the cramps you inflict in my lower abdomen, to your inevitable grand expulsion of blood, I’m always hyper-sensitive to where you’re at. And I’m here today to ask you one thing: read the room.

Have I confused you with purchases of hair dye to maintain a uniform colour across my pate? I have not; my grey hairs flow as freely as you do, and I make no attempt to conceal them. There are no wrinkle creams seeping into my pores to try and smooth out lines. Fancy footwear now consists of shoes which offer bunion support. I make involuntary groaning sounds when I stand up, and I feel the effects of insufficient fibre in my diet immediately.

I have not downloaded TikTok on my phone, nor do I intend to. I do not recognize anyone on the cover of US Weekly anymore. All music made after 1993 sounds the same to me (and I don’t care for it). It is not uncommon for me to be in bed before 9 p.m. and I do not make it through the night without having to get up to pee at least twice. I don’t know why young people consider it a compliment to call someone a goat, and I have no intention of finding out.

In short, I have embraced my aging body, and I’m requesting that you do the same. Remember those two glorious children that you worked so hard to help me build? (I couldn’t have done it without you!) Well, there will be no more babies, dear uterus; my diaper days are done. It’s no longer necessary for you to put on such a vibrant and fulsome display of fertility each month. The pheromones you excrete to lure potent sperm towards me are going to waste. You can phone it in if you like, work part-time. Or perhaps we can set up a less frequent meeting schedule. If twice a year is good enough for my dentist, I think it’s good enough for us too. You can ease yourself out to pasture.

Your valiant efforts since puberty have been noted and appreciated. I think we can consider ourselves to be highly successful in the reproductive realm, and it’s important to quit while you’re ahead. Leave ‘em wanting more, I say! And doesn’t it seem a little tacky to be menstruating like a damn teenager when my hands could easily be mistaken for those of an octogenarian?

Besides, it would be really great if I could convert my tampon budget to a Metamucil budget. Who can afford both?