A few years ago, I started noticing jet-black hair on my chin. At the time, I was convinced I was turning into a goat. You can imagine my surprise when someone let me in on a little secret: Black chin hair happens with age, and it only gets worse the older you get.
Since the discovery, I've plucked, waxed and rubbed acid on my chin. But the hair still comes back. Every few weeks.
Recently, I started waking up in the mornings in a pool of my own sweat. Well, at first I thought it was something else, and in hindsight I kinda wish it was. Turns out, the sweating is the result of something much worse than an incontinent bladder.
I went to the doctor last week for my yearly well-woman checkup and mentioned a few of my odd symptoms: chin hair, irritability, insomnia, hot flashes.
I was sure she was going to write me a prescription for Xanax or suggest I take a month off from parenting (complete with doctor's note officially excusing me from my duties). But instead, she took four vials of blood and said she would check my hormone levels.
"Hormone levels?" I asked, surprised. "But I'm only 42!"
She patted me on the shoulder and looked at me with sad puppy dog eyes. "You'd be surprised. But don't worry, this isn't the end of the world."
Breaking News: The end of the world is near.
A few days later, the nurse called with my blood test results. Cholesterol, fine. White blood count, fine. Thyroid, perfect. Hormone levels, uh-oh.
Long story short, I'm officially perimenopausal. I didn't even know that was a real word until I Googled it. According to MayoClinic.com, perimenopause is this: The interval in which a woman's body makes a natural shift from more-or-less regular cycles of ovulation and menstruation toward permanent infertility or menopause.
When I got to the word menopause is about the time I had one heck of a spectacular meltdown.
Me? Menopause? But I just gave BIRTH to a HUMAN only SEVEN YEARS AGO. I was a NORMAL woman! (OK, so I used the word normal when "normal" is clearly subjective. I was a lot like YOU, only slightly off. Or what I like to call quirky. But you get what I'm saying.)
Anyway, I get it. I'm aging. I'm "of a certain age." I guess the part that's distressing and even a little confusing is that I have friends who are in the very middle of their childbearing years.
Everyone I work with is either pregnant or nursing, barely out of college and just getting their lives started, or trying to conceive. And here I am wearing boyfriend jeans and telling inappropriate jokes at the dinner table. It's all becoming very clear to me. I'm turning into a giant cliché.
You know those women who are middle-aged but who try to trick you into believing they're a lot younger by shopping at Forever 21? That's me!
(Pause for sudden and overwhelmingly unsettling hot flash.)
I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I'm not going down without a fight. Do you hear me, Mother Nature? While yes, I'm glad I can skip that one aisle at the grocery store, I'm not ready to be rid of ALL MY ESTROGEN. Not just yet. I'm still young(ish) and viable and don't have to wear reading glasses yet. And yes, I have to spray estrogen on my forearm every morning where I used to wear perfume, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to turn my eggs in for a walking cane and a pair of old lady shoes. Not even close.
