Adventures of the Traveling Grief Case

Okay but seriously — is this perimenopause?

Because at some point you stop asking what’s wrong and you start realizing…
oh.

It’s me.

I’m the problem.

There is no one blocking me. I am blocking my damn self. And not in a cute, “do the inner work” way. In a my body has hijacked the controls way.

I’m not just tired.

Some days I’m exhausted.

Like my bones are tired. Like my body doesn’t even feel like mine anymore.

And you try, right?
You eat better.
You make better choices.
You’re like, okay, I’ll be good today.

And then one day you’re like, you know what? I deserve a treat.

And then the treat makes you feel like absolute shit and you regret it almost immediately and you’re like —
why did I do that?

Why could I eat five donuts as a teenager, think I was fat, and not even be close?

Honestly?
I wish I was that fat again.

And then there’s dating.

In theory, sure.
In reality?

My house is quiet.
The bills are paid.
It’s winter.
It’s cold.

I don’t want to brush my hair or put on makeup.

Heels?
There is absolutely no way I am wearing heels again.

And a bra?
I think not.

— pause —

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Wow, she’s really unraveling,”
correct.

This is what unraveling looks like when you’ve already done the therapy.

Okay. Continuing.

Why is there not a dance club for perimenopausal women who want to wear sneakers, leggings, oversized sweatshirts, no bras, and still be considered dressed appropriately?

Also — let’s just do brunch.
Because I need to be home by nine.

And I can’t even meet you for drinks anymore.

Perimenopause has robbed me of even wanting alcohol.

Sure, I can have a glass of wine.
Maybe a couple martinis.

But now my hangovers are like ten times worse, my hormones lose their minds, and I’m an emotional wreck for two days.

So what exactly am I escaping into?

That’s the thing no one tells you.

You can’t escape yourself anymore.

You can’t out-drink it.
You can’t out-diet it.
You can’t out-socialize it.
You can’t out-optimize it.

Your body just goes:
Nope. We’re done.

And everyone calls it “less patience,” but it’s not that.

It’s that I no longer have the capacity to pretend I’m fine with things I’m not fine with.

I don’t want nightlife.
I want quiet.
I want comfort.
I want honesty.
I want to stop performing.

And people like to say perimenopause is like being a teenager again.

Except this time I have bills, zero patience, and absolutely no interest in suffering for aesthetic reasons.

If my clothes don’t fit right, my body will shut the whole operation down.

This isn’t a glow-up.

It’s a hostile takeover.

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