"Are You There, Estrogen? It's Me, Margaret": A Judy Blume-style menopause parody short story

Photo by Kampus Production

In honor of our first Menopause Support Coffee Chat session, this Saturday, June 7th @10:30am, we asked ChatGPT to write a Judy Blume-style story about a menopausal Margaret - thanks Suzanne for inspiring this post!

It started with the sweating.

Not the kind of sweat from a brisk jog or from wearing a too-tight bra in gym class (ugh, remember those?). No. This was different. This was 3:14 a.m. sweat. Confused, panicked, betrayed by your own pores sweat.

Margaret Simon, now 52, woke up drenched. Not just glistening. We’re talking full-blown, “Did I sleepwalk into a sauna?” wet.

She sat up in bed, peeled the sheets off like she was unwrapping herself from a microwaved burrito, and shouted to the universe.

“Are you THERE, Estrogen? It’s me, Margaret!”

Silence. Not even a hormonal echo.

Her husband, Bruce, mumbled something in his sleep that sounded like, “Please stop opening the freezer.”

This was the fourth night in a row she’d stood in front of it like a sweating raccoon, the icy breeze of the freezer her only friend. She was considering sleeping in the vegetable crisper.

Margaret used to think menopause was just about not getting your period anymore. A sort of biological retirement party. Cake, confetti, and maybe a sparkly uterus-shaped pin. But this? This was a multi-season Netflix drama starring her and a cast of unpredictable side effects.

The mood swings? Oscar-worthy.

The memory lapses? She once put her phone in the fridge and yelled at her remote when it wouldn’t load Google Maps.

The cravings? Don’t ask about the night she drove to three different 24-hour stores searching for one very specific kind of sour cream and onion chip from 1987.

One afternoon, she found herself in the tampon aisle at the drugstore. Not because she needed them, but because she missed them. Not the cramps, not the bloating. Just the weird comfort of predictability. She stood there, whispering to a box of light-flow applicators, “We had a good run.” A young woman nearby edged away slowly, clutching her Midol.

Her best friend, Nancy, who now preferred to be called "Namaste Nancy" and wore more tie-dye than a Grateful Dead reunion tour, invited her to a “Womb Awakening Drum Circle.” “I don’t want to awaken my womb,” Margaret said. “I want it to take a nap and leave me alone.”

Still, she went. Why? Because somewhere between the hot flashes and the sudden urge to cry at paper towel commercials, Margaret realized she needed community. She needed sisterhood. She needed someone to say, “No, you’re not crazy—you’re just hormonal soup.”

At the drum circle, surrounded by women in caftans and one woman aggressively waving sage at everyone’s pelvis, Margaret felt something strange. Not heat. Not rage. But relief. Laughter. Belonging.

That night, she stood in front of the mirror, face shiny, hair wild, fanning herself with a CVS receipt long enough to be used as a scarf. And she said it again:

“Are you there, Estrogen?”, “It’s me, Margaret.”

And for the first time, she didn’t need an answer. She was sweaty. She was moody. She was magnificent.

And she was going to buy a second freezer. Just in case.

The End-ish. (She’ll forget where she put this story in about 15 minutes.)