In 1900, the average life expectancy of a US citizen was 48, so most menopausal women were dead, which is not a great place to be.
I find I'm the sort of harried working mother who has difficulty scheduling in a bit of rest amid the Ptolemaically complicated interlocking gears of professional and personal life.
Life at the top may be privileged, but it is not simple.
Although my life is far from perfect, the irony is that in a divorced parent's custody schedule - with days on and days off - instead of like it was before, when I felt ragged and still oddly guilty all the time, now I feel guilty but not ragged.
Approaching 50, I am living a life that is less sunlit Waldman/Chabon than tattered Charles Bukowski.
In the end, the real wisdom of menopause may be in questioning how fun or even sane this chore wheel called modern life actually is.