50 is the New 90

A Candid Reflection on Perimenopause, Mental Health, and Navigating Midlife.

I hope I look this cool at 90.

Depression. Anger. Exhaustion. Joint pain.

This is not the sped-up voice at the end of a pharmaceutical commercial warning you of the side effects of the hottest weight loss drug in town. It is, however, a list of symptoms that reared their head in my 40s, and make no mistake, I was blindsided by every one of these symptoms. 

At one point, I remember sitting in my bed, looking out the window and thinking, “Maybe I’m depressed? Maybe I’ve always been depressed. I think I used to be fun. The kids sure don’t think I’m fun. My wife, Mary, doesn't think I’m fun.” 

I now know I had begun perimenopause, which was either contributing to or wholly causing my down-in-the-dumps feelings. 

Perimenopause and menopause can be lonely times in a woman’s life. Very few people talk about what it’s like to be at this age. The media doesn’t talk about it, though they do like to ramble on about how representation matters. But let’s be honest, most actresses over 40 are relegated to the roles of “Judge” or “Grandma” because apparently, we can’t stand to look at the wrinkles on a leading lady’s face. 

I’m no better, I wrote about how hesitant I’ve been to talk about my age in my substack story, Too Fat, Too Old, Too Gay. I reach extreme levels of excitement when people are shocked by my real age. I don’t care for one second if they’re being nice. I’ll feast on that compliment for weeks. 

But a recent bout of “Oh my God will it ever stop raining and will I ever be happy again?” got me thinking that we have to band together and start talking about aging in a way that isn’t all about ways to prevent aging. I’m not saying we have to stop talking about creams and Botox and filler (oh my!) I'm not above considering an appointment to sort out the frown lines that are hardening while I type. 

But I think we have to normalize the aging process. We also need to tell all our 20 and 30-something lady friends about what’s coming down the pike. Maybe if I had known what was coming, the transition might have been a bit gentler. 

If not, at least there’s comfort in the community. So, here is all the junk that has presented itself in my life as of late.

• Let’s start with the exhaustion. When I was pregnant, I was exhausted all the time. I’d go to bed early, wake up after 11 hours of sleep, and feel, what’s the phrase? Still fucking exhausted. That made sense though; I was growing a baby. Now, I’m not growing a baby (though I may be growing a FUPA) and I feel the same exhaustion. By 3 pm I feel laggy. By 4 pm I regret making plans for a 5 pm dinner. By 6 pm, I’ve stopped listening and am fantasizing about lying down and listening to an audiobook. By 8 pm, I’m home, lying in bed and fighting to stay awake until 9 pm. 

• Sensitive AF. I used to be able to take a joke or to take things in stride. Now every slight has me writing a letter to customer service or starting a vendetta that makes Megan and Kate seem like pals. 

• The Sensitivity Continues. Like why has everything in the world become so loud? People eating cereal. People eating almost anything can send me. Send me where? Right to item number 4.

• Angerville. I know I have a temper, but did I always want to light things on fire?

• Speaking of lighting things on fire. I’d light my hair on fire if it meant I got to spend two days alone recovering. And it’s not just me. I’ve noticed that Mary has started saying things like, “You know if you died or whatever, I wouldn’t get remarried. I’d just be alone. Forever.” Then she smiles. 

• The body just ain't what it used to be. The other day, while putting my hair in a ponytail, I noticed a disturbing image of wiggling flesh in and around my armpits. Is that my triceps? Is that a turkey neck? Then I dropped my hair tie on the floor and listened to the chorus of cracks and pops as I bent over to pick it up. Joint pain is real and no one talks about the connection to menopause.

• I’m hot. I’m cold. I’ve installed ceiling fans in every room in the house.

So… 40s, 50s. They’re a challenge. But there is some help available. I went to my trusty lady part doctor and asked if perhaps menopause was making me crazy. I described my symptoms, and she said “Let’s talk about getting you on hormone replacement therapy.” 

It’s been a year, and I’ve noticed an improvement in my mood, my sleep, and my life. Do I still feel like life is harder than it was in my carefree 20s and 30s? Yes. But who can say if that’s true or if it’s me looking back at a time in my life and glamorizing it a bit? Who can say if it’s always menopause or the result of having kids? I love them so much, but lawdy, parenting is hard. Who can say what might be the result of a global pandemic or a political climate that feels like a dystopian movie from the 80s?

I can’t say what is causing what, but I can say we should be talking about all of these things. We should get help when we feel a way, as the kids today say. 

And we should remind ourselves that the sun, to this point, has always risen for another day. That brings me hope. And yes, I go to bed at 9, but perhaps all that sleep will help heal my joints and maybe restore some moisture to my dried-out skin. 

It could happen.