Yes, it's official. I've been flipping through MORE magazine, the magazine for "women of style and substance" (read: middle aged) in the various doctors' offices whose doorways I darken.
I am une femme d'un certain age, as the French say, a woman of a certain age which is a nice way of saying I've earned the right to go blonde to cover my grey and talk publicly about my estradiol level which is the topic of this post.
(Shade your eyes if you can't handle the truth: the truth is that being a woman in her 40s is like walking to school uphill both ways with an uncool backpack on.)
I want to make light of it, this stumbling dwindling end of my fertile years, these endless headaches, the gritty dry eye, the getting up from a sitting position on the ground from playing Uno with my kids that involves groaning and clutching for the coffee table with my claw-hand of early-onset osteo-arthritis while they go, Geez, Mom, stop grunting. Stop farting.
The above video of a singing uterus helps. Funny women help. So does chocolate. So does a good hot bath in which I pour fragrant bubbles made in Italy and scrub myself with a loofah trying to uncover fresh, vibrant, youthful-looking skin through vigorous exfoliation. Then I cry. That helps too, sometimes. So does fiction.
My doctor, a very nice man, said, "When my wife was going through perimenopause, she wanted to bite the heads off of cute baby birds." At the time I thought that was extreme. I was like, Wow, buddy, she sounds kinda scary.
Then, yesterday, I had a shouting match with a box of cereal. "Why won't this fucking infuriating sealed plastic bag open, godamnit! and FURTHERMORE breakfast cereal as a whole conceit is an example the kind of decadence that caused Rome to fall," and I caught myself and thought, at this stage in my life there is nothing I am above.