Perimenopause: Because Apparently 46 Was Getting a Little Too Fucking Peaceful

I’m 46, and apparently my body has decided that after four and a half decades of relatively predictable behavior, it’s time to burn the whole fucking operation to the ground.

Welcome to perimenopause.

Or, as I like to call it:

“What the fuck is happening to me, and why am I eating again?”

Nobody properly warned me about this shit.

They tell you about hot flashes. They casually mention “hormonal changes.” They might throw around words like brain fog and weight redistribution.

WEIGHT REDISTRIBUTION?!

Ma’am.

Amazon redistributes packages.

My body appears to have taken every available ounce of fat, loaded it onto a fucking Greyhound bus, and dropped it off directly around my waist.

I look like I swallowed an inner tube and it got permanently lodged around my middle.

Not a cute little pool float either.

I’m talking commercial-grade river tubing.

NOTHING FUCKING FITS

Every morning I walk into my closet like maybe today will be different.

It never is.

I have approximately 47 pairs of pants representing several different eras of my life, and somehow every single pair has collectively decided to go fuck itself.

I put on jeans and immediately start bargaining with God.

“Okay, if these button, I swear I’ll stop eating garbage.”

They button.

Barely.

I sit down.

My internal organs relocate to my chest cavity.

Fuck it. Leggings it is.

At this point, elastic waistbands aren’t clothing.

They’re medical equipment.

AND MY THIGHS HAVE JOINED THE NFL

While my waist was busy becoming a flotation device, apparently my thighs were at fucking training camp.

These bitches are LINEBACKERS.

I’m not talking about a little thigh rub.

These thighs look like they could protect a quarterback, stop a charging moose, and open a stuck pickle jar without using their hands.

I walk into a room and my thighs arrive three business days before the rest of me.

Skinny jeans?

Absolutely the fuck not.

My thighs take one look at them and say:

“Ma’am, we’re gonna need you to find us something with zoning approval.”

The irony is that I now have the legs of a professional athlete while possessing absolutely none of the cardiovascular abilities of one.

I look like I could tackle a grown man.

Meanwhile, I’m winded because I carried laundry across the house.

WHY AM I ALWAYS FUCKING HUNGRY?

I just ate.

Doesn’t matter.

Hungry.

Breakfast? Ate it.

Lunch? Ate it.

Snack? Absolutely.

Second snack? Don’t judge me.

Walk through the kitchen and see a piece of cheese?

Well, apparently we’re eating again.

I’m like a Labrador retriever with a debit card.

I’ll stand in front of the refrigerator staring into it like the answers to all of life’s problems are hidden behind the mayonnaise.

And please don’t come at me with:

“Try having some almonds.”

FUCK YOUR ALMONDS, SUSAN.

I don’t want six almonds and a glass of water.

I want bread.

I want pasta.

I want cheese.

I want something dipped in something else.

And then I’d like a little treat because apparently surviving until 2:30 p.m. now warrants a fucking celebration.

MY INTERNAL THERMOSTAT IS POSSESSED

I’m hot.

Nope. Cold.

Put on sweatshirt.

GET THIS FUCKING THING OFF ME.

Turn on fan.

Now I’m freezing.

Get blanket.

Too hot.

One leg out.

Both legs out.

Fan back on.

Window open.

Window closed.

At this point, Jet probably feels like he lives inside a fucking Hampton Inn thermostat being controlled by a toddler.

And God help that man if he ever says:

“It feels fine in here to me.”

Oh, does it, Jet?

DOES IT FEEL FUCKING FINE?!

Congratulations.

Unfortunately, the woman standing in front of you is currently being cremated from the inside out.

AND NOW APPARENTLY I HAVE A DIFFERENT FUCKING SMELL EVERY DAY

This one.

THIS ONE NOBODY FUCKING MENTIONED.

Why do I smell different every day?!

I shower.

I use soap.

I use deodorant.

I own approximately 900 lotions, sprays, washes, creams and things designed specifically to prevent me from smelling like a farm animal left in a Honda Civic in August.

And yet every once in a while I catch a whiff of something and think:

“What the fuck is that?”

Then comes the horrifying realization:

IT’S ME.

Yesterday? Fine.

Today?

Apparently my hormones selected Eau de Hot Dumpster with subtle notes of onion.

So now I’m sniffing myself like a TSA drug dog.

Shirt?

Sniff.

Armpit?

Sniff.

Bra?

Jesus Christ, what has my life become?

I JUST FUCKING SHOWERED.

Apparently perimenopause comes with its own fragrance subscription service.

Every morning a new scent arrives.

No cancellation available.

Coming this fall from Coffee, Chaos & Kelly:

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?™

A sophisticated fragrance collection for women over 40.

Featuring:

Hot Flash Musk

Hormonal Hibiscus

Sweaty Titty No. 5

Eau de I Literally Just Showered

And our signature evening fragrance:

Is That Me or the Dog?

AND MY BRAIN HAS COMPLETELY FUCKED OFF

Then there’s the brain fog.

Except calling this brain fog feels wildly insufficient.

Fog eventually lifts.

This bitch moved in and changed her mailing address.

I walk into a room and have absolutely no idea why I’m there.

I open my phone to do something.

See a text.

Answer the text.

Open Facebook.

Watch a video.

Google something completely unrelated.

Put the phone down.

Twenty minutes later:

WHAT THE FUCK WAS I DOING?

I forget names.

I forget words.

I forget why I’m telling a story WHILE I’M TELLING THE FUCKING STORY.

I’ll look directly at Jet and say:

“Can you hand me the…you know…the thing.”

“What thing?”

“THE FUCKING THING, JET.”

Apparently after enough time together, your partner is expected to develop telepathy because you can no longer remember the word spatula.

And names?

Forget it.

I’ve reached the age where I may genuinely need to start wearing a name tag.

HELLO, MY NAME IS:

Fuck, give me a minute.

SO THIS IS 46.

Nobody sat me down and explained that one day I’d wake up with:

• An inner tube around my waist.

• Two NFL linebackers where my thighs used to be.

• The appetite of a teenage boy after football practice.

• An internal thermostat controlled by Satan.

• A rotating assortment of mystery odors.

• And a brain operating on approximately seven fucking megabytes of RAM.

Yet somehow I’m expected to continue working, cooking, paying bills, remembering passwords, maintaining relationships and behaving like a functioning member of society.

Absolutely fucking adorable.

So if you see me standing in the kitchen wearing stretchy pants, eating shredded cheese directly from the bag, sweating from one boob while the other one is cold, sniffing my armpit and trying to remember my own fucking name...

Mind your business.

I’m 46.

I’m in perimenopause.

And apparently this is what thriving looks like now.

Coffee, Chaos & Kelly — keepin’ it real, one hot flash, mystery smell and emotional-support snack at a time.