According to my skincare products and the supplements I religiously purchase, I have “mature” everything — mature skin, mature eyes, mature ears. I assume this is marketing’s polite way of saying, “You old.”
Comedian Jeff Heffron calls the 50s the freshman class of old people — which is perfect, because I do feel like a confused freshman. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be half the time, I’m sleep-deprived, and my body is breaking out in weird places. The only difference is, instead of ramen and bootleg cable, my survival kit now consists of collagen powder and a retinol serum that costs as much as my first car.
Now I have a daily checklist for aging. Not gracefully. Confusingly.
I have to plan for everything now. In my 30s, I could throw on chapstick and call it skincare. Now my morning routine rivals the pre-launch protocol for NASA.
Sunscreen? Always. Even when it’s cloudy. Even when I’m inside. Even when I’m asleep — just in case a rogue UV ray sneaks through my blackout curtains and ages me another five years.
Hydration? A must. But not too much at night, or I’ll be up at 3 a.m. trying to feel my way to the bathroom without looking at the clock.
Protein? Crucial. But which kind? Soy, pea, chicken, beef? The protein market is so confusing, I half expect a protein salesman to show up at my door like, “Have you accepted whey into your life?”
Bedtime? It must be just right. Too early? I wake up at 4 a.m., staring at the ceiling, pondering my life choices and wondering if it’s too late to learn tap dancing. Too late? I risk not hitting my REM cycle, which apparently affects EVERYTHING. The trick is, my “perfect bedtime” changes weekly, because hormones. Or lack thereof.
I knew something was off in my early 40s when I started forgetting why I walked into rooms. My brain used to be a well-organized filing cabinet. Now it’s a junk drawer, filled with old batteries, expired coupons, and a random soy sauce packet. No one warned me that this was the first sign of the Grand Event: Menopause.
Well, technically, perimenopause — which sounds like the name of a really perky fitness instructor.
“Hi, I’m Peri Menopause, and I’m here to RUIN YOUR LIFE!”
This is a condition that all women over 50 will experience, yet no one talks about it. It’s like Fight Club, but with hot flashes and joint pain. My memory has become so unreliable that if someone asked me to recall what I ate for breakfast, I’d have to check my plate for crumbs.
There’s a lot of good on this side of the hill. We’re just getting started.
Aging is not for the weak. It’s a full-time job with no paycheck, no time off, and absolutely no instruction manual. But there are some perks. I no longer waste time on things that don’t bring me joy (like wearing high heels or tolerating bad conversations). And honestly, I wouldn’t trade this age for my 20s again-unless, of course, I could bring my current wisdom with me. And maybe my retinol.
Honestly, I couldn’t be more thrilled to be 50 (51, this year). If you’re with me or will be soon, welcome. May our sunscreen always be SPF 100, our bedtimes be just right, and our supplements always be on sale.
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