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Amusing notes & anecdotes from my thoroughly modern midlife. Live- Laugh- Love- Perimenopause
I'll be honest and admit my least favorite part of ye olde yuletide is the gift exchange. I know! So Scroogey, right? I'm delighted to gift the kiddies but adult gift exchanges stress me out. Frankly, I'm happier just spending one jolly day eating and laughing with my favorite people in lieu of three crazy weeks during the busiest season of my work year ordering stuff and shopping in crowded places.
I've also seen too many documentaries on textile and plastic pollution around the world and the last thing I want to deal with is unnecessary stuff. My heart is big but my house is tiny, so my personal favorite presents are things that don't stick around like Whole Food gift cards, bottles of olive oil and cookbooks which I'll always find space for. Beyond that a wee holiday wink and warm hug will suffice.
HOWEVER if a physical gift is definitely on the docket, here's a list of things the perimenopausal women in your life actually need.
Ready, Santa? Let's go shopping.
1) Magnifying Bookmark
I've been near-sighted with astigmatism since age 11 or 12 and my vision is so bad that leaving the house without corrective lenses would actually be pretty dangerous. My late-90s college apartment had a long wall of mirrored closets and every time I woke in the middle of the night, it'd take my groggy brain a few seconds to realize the shadowy figure in the mirror was me.
Now I'm 47 and reading tiny text makes my head hurt too. After a humbling experience fumbling around Walgreens' reading glasses carousel, I found these magnifying sheets and bookmarks on Amazon and can't wait to bring them to some chic, dimly-lit restaurant so I can show those trendy 20-somethings what's coming for them someday. Slip this sucker into her stocking to pump up the fonts and her quality of life.
2) Cream. Just any and every type of cream
Your girl's parched-- time to throw some moisture at the problem. I'm not convinced that fancy or expensive is better or necessary. I'm a fan of simple things like almond oil, Weleda and products from my local Japanese convenience store. Along the same lines, consider restocking her favorite sunscreen. My favorites are La Roche Posay and Supergoop Glow Screen. The $8 Supergoop dupe from Trader Joe's is also pretty good.
Advanced shoppers may go for the odd beef tallow face cream I keep getting Instagram ads for. Not suitable for vegetarians or women who'd rather not smell like 5 Guys. I also read on reddit that chicks my age are putting estrogen cream on their faces. Do with that information what you will.
3) Disposable Underwear leaving zero leaks/ zero odors
When I was 13 and squeamishly coming to terms with my quickly changing body, I would have rather perished on the spot than discuss my menstrual flow with girlfriends. Oh how the tides have turned, because in my late 40s, not only am I no longer shy talking about my period but it has somehow become one of my favorite topics. Recently, one of my fellow heavy-flow sisters (who will remain nameless) passed along a recommendation that will haunt me long past New Year's.
4) A veritable lending library of menopause education books
All hail the queens leading the charge today, providing the health information our mothers and grandmothers deserved access to. My Texas hometown icon Dr. Mary Claire Haver's The New Menopause and The Galveston Diet are definitely on my wish list. Other books women my age might enjoy seeing under the tree include The Menopause Manifesto by Dr. Jen Gunter and The Menopause Brain by Lisa Mosconi.
5) An enormous cache of vitamins and supplements
This can involve all or some of the following:
Black cohosh, evening primrose, vitamin D, vitamin B12, magnesium glycinate, magnesium citrate, magnesium chloride, magnesium L-threonate, green tea, cranberry juice, collagen peptides, Red Clover, Omega 3 fatty acids, calcium, probiotics, prebiotics, antibiotics, ginseng, wild yam, flaxseed, maca, St. John's Wort, Ashwaganda, Theanine, turmeric, creatine and a fiber supplement
Dear God, it's not that hard to figure this out... I don't know why you're making it so complicated.
6) A sleep aid--something that'll really knock her ass out
Do some research here--I'm not gonna advise on this one. But honestly people of all ages would likely be thrilled if you just tossed a variety of gummies in their stocking like medicinal confetti.
And if the Calm company feels compelled to send me a family-sized jar of these, I certainly wouldn't kick them out of bed.
7) Lean protein sources, organized Jenga-style in the fridge, with the following note:
8) And last (but never least)... Potatoes. Any preparation method
Would you not agree that potatoes make everyone happy? This is a bulletproof suggestion and I hope you take it
Happy Holidays, y'all!
Don't forget to slap a weighted vest on your gal and take a walk after your holiday dinner to help regulate blood sugar levels by allowing her muscles to absorb glucose from her bloodstream more efficiently, potentially preventing spikes and crashes, while also aiding digestion by stimulating the movement of food through her digestive system.
Well, it's the day before the U.S. presidential election and everyone's feeling forking fantastic. Tension is at an all time low and you can feel the ease in the air. It'll be really nice when the whole thing's good and done Tuesday night so we can all celebrate and move into our bright new future as a united nation. Maybe I'll invite neighbors over for homemade apple pie.
I've never been the greatest at discussing politics, so as part of my midlife personal improvement plan, I've been on a journey to better inform myself. I use the term "inform myself" broadly here, as I'm often still astounded by how much I still don't know at 47. My LIST OF THINGS I DO NOT KNOW is long, diverse in scope and should keep me pretty busy till my dying days. When I'm 87, I plan to sit around my local pizza shop boring my friends with juicy facts about the Habsburg Empire and tales from Yoruba mythology until a cute 20-something interrupts to compliment my expertly applied eyeshadow. I'll put down my slice and say, "Thank you, dear! I finally got the hang of it!"
As part of this self-improvement plan, I picked up a book last year titled "Concise History of the World" and read it cover to cover since my history education has always felt deficient and I needed my reintroduction to be synoptic and digestible. National Geographic published it in 2004 so the last 20 years remain a mystery even though I was alive to see them. I ransacked this book with sticky notes, reminding myself to add certain events to my neverending LIST OF THINGS I DO NOT KNOW.
I'll tell you what I do know after reading that book. People have been doing barbaric, inhumane things to one another since the literal dawn of time. Maybe I don't even need to read National Geographic's abridged version; they can make this one super-duper concise and just run a pamphlet titled "2004 to 2024-- More of the Same...With Internet!".
This site is called Much to My Delight because I work really hard to always look for the good, but in all honesty, the state of the world often leaves me bereft. As a city dweller I can't simply run into the woods when things feel this heavy. As an alternative, I spend an awful lot of time in Central Park.
I do so many things there. I walk. I meditate. I catch up with friends. I read. I lay in the grass. I drag my husband. Sometimes I simply lean back on a park bench, take a deep breath and ask the stranger next to me, "Have the lambs stopped screaming?"
I love Central Park for its gorgeous architecture and quiet natural beauty, but mostly I go to remind myself that people aren't always terrible. Central Park is the sweetest, most wholesome place I've ever been and that's saying a lot for a green rectangle in the middle of the wackiest city in the world.
I spent six hours in and out of the park one recent Saturday. For over an hour, I balanced myself on the lip of Bethesda Fountain--no book, no headphones, no scrolling--I just sat and watched the world go by. I watched dogs splash in the fountain and little kids pointing at the ducks and boats in the The Lake. I saw babies perched on papas' shoulders and elderly couples clutching hands. I watched merry brides and poreless 15-year-olds gather ballooning hemlines as they posed for wedding and quinceañera photos in twinkling dresses shaped like cupcakes. A singer performed a mediocre rendition of the Bee Gee's criminally underrated "How Deep is Your Love?" while a couple slow-danced in the middle of a swiftly moving crowd. I smiled at their affection and tenderness, then the woman pulled away to reveal a pregnant belly and suddenly I was wiping tears thinking of the memory they just created.
It almost doesn't seem possible, but I've only witnessed the best of life in that park. Picnics, symphony concerts, swing dancing, roller skating, drum circles, kids' birthday parties, families bicycling on a sunny day. People seem to be at their best there-- relaxed, open, friendly, patient. Spending time there each weekend centers me for the week ahead. It doesn't erase anything bad but it sure helps me notice all the world's good. I was there for the marathon yesterday and, as per usual, my heart exploded from the sense of shared humanity. I kinda wish it were held after the election because that's when we'll really need some loving energy.
What is my point exactly? Honestly, bro--I'm not sure. The brain fog caught me halfway through writing this thing and I'm not certain what point I'm attempting to drive home anymore. I don't know -- maybe it's this. If you are one of the privileged people in this world who has access to a place that feels peaceful, spend more time there. Look around, talk to someone you don't know and try to observe kind and decent behaviors in action.
I'll share one of my recent observations as an example.
I was exiting a karaoke bar in Koreatown two weeks ago when two guys on the sidewalk began to share what are colloquially referred to as "fightin' words'. They started puffing up their chests as only guys hanging out on a sidewalk do. Things started to get more serious as my friends and I began to approach. I wondered if I'd need to duck if a punch got thrown.
But then the guy responsible for much of the provocation took notice of us and retreated from the other man's face.
"Hold up man, this group needs to get through. I'ma let 'em pass."
We mind our business and shuffle through quickly. Once safely past them I hear the same man yell, "Okay now, show me you're not a pussy!" I found his treatment of us very considerate.
Good people are still out there, friends. Take a minute to notice. Find your silver lining, peel it, and plop it on your heart, right by your I Voted sticker.
I love almost everything about living in New York. The only bummers are: street noise, rats on subway tracks and the fact that I haven't been able to fit a tall bottle of olive oil in a kitchen cabinet since 1999. Like I said, I love almost everything about living here.
The thing I like least about New York is its distance from my family.
I've taken two trips to Texas every year for the past 25. Not bad, not great. I've also made successful efforts to lull my parents, niece and aunt to my home in Astoria. My brother has literally never been to New York before. I could live in Yonkers for all he knows.
I saw a video earlier this year that quickly put this into harsh perspective. Please watch if you haven't already. I'll wait. See you in 30 seconds.
It's my 25th year in New York. To people who keep track of these things, I'm officially official.
I moved here an unemployed 22-year-old with no friends, home-bleached hair and a single sweater. I lived here through 9/11 and the early aughts when the Village Voice was on every street corner and people still made calls in phone booths. I loved The Coffee Shop in Union Square and a long-gone Aghani restaurant on 3rd Ave where you could take your shoes off and lean against orange silk pillows. I bought my first leather jacket at Antique Boutique on West Broadway and thought, "Finally! I have an edge!". It was long, stiff and dark purple and I didn't realize it had been spray-painted that way until I wore it on a cloudy November day and off my hemline dripped a faint purple rain.
Anyway, I've been here a long time. I lived here as a very young woman and I will probably live here as a very old woman too, hopefully in a tasteful three-bedroom co-op overlooking Central Park with striking architectural details and a handsome young doorman.
But for now, I'm a middle-aged woman in New York and sometimes find it to be a bit isolating. The streets of New York City will always flood with ambitious twenty-somethings coming to work in banks or ad agencies or theater houses. It took almost no effort to meet contemporaries in my 20s. Back then, I made friends at the laundromat, my local bars and Godforsaken Craigslist. It's a miracle I never got murdered.
But not everyone who moves here has an intention to stay. I don't know the stats but I'd guess that most don't. New York is a "try it on" kind of place, a transient city. I'm not in touch with any of the friends I met here in my early 20s. They grew up all over the place, worked in NY for five or six years then scattered back all over the country well over 18 years ago. I actually struggle to remember most of their names. I'm not talking about you, K.B.C. North Carolina was lucky to get you.
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#RIP Loehmann's |
But people my age seem harder to spot these days. I don't notice a lot of other 40-somethings in Astoria besides the friends I cling to like vinyl. In my neighborhood I notice it's mostly older people who have lived here for 50 years or young adults who'll likely be gone in three. Obviously, the majority of my peers are in the thick of parenthood, and many made the move to New Jersey or Long Island eight to ten years ago. The call for more closet space and dishwashers and backyards was strong and they answered it. I can't say I blame them-- to be almost 50 and still not have an actual kitchen cupboard is a humbling experience.
I remember being 22 walking around in my silly purple jacket feeling like everyone looked cooler than me. Now when I walk around I can't help noticing how many people look so much younger than me. Yesterday on my walk to work a 20-something on a scooter side-swiped me so hard he knocked the sunglasses off my face. I picked them up off the sidewalk and shook them like a cane.
I feel like an auntie out on these streets.
This is not necessarily a bad thing, just an observation. I actually forget that I'm not in my 20s or 30s until I meet someone in that age range and am served a harsh reminder. Every time I get a new 27-year-old client it takes me 10 minutes to realize there are 20 years between us. They describe their experiences and I can remember the feelings so vividly it takes me right back to that time. Then I make a pop culture reference that embarrasses us both and remember I'm not their contemporary.
Anyway, I'm gonna wrap this up by doing something Gen Z would describe as cringe and quote the very silly Carrie Bradshaw. The title alone should have told you I might be headed there. There's a scene in the first Sex and the City movie (only slightly less cringy than their second) where Carrie is having cocktails with her young assistant Jennifer Hudson at a bar and says, "Enjoy yourself... that's what your 20s are for. Your 30s are to learn the lessons and your 40s are to pay for the drinks."
I think she got the first half right but don't relate with the last part. Cocktails in Manhattan cost 25 bucks and make me lose two nights' sleep.
I think my 40s will be for something else. Something I haven't quite worked out yet.
*the obvious--lived through my first pandemic. in 2020 I turned 43, my lucky number since age ten. sorry, y'all
*gained and lost somewhere between 15 and 20 pounds a few times
*stopped writing and posting because I often felt like I was talking to myself
*started actually talking to myself because I was no longer writing
*entered the weird world of perimenopause, who knows when, but my biggest clues were missed periods and brain fog
*experienced five new york city autumns
*lost all color in my lips. no one warned me
*ordained two friends' weddings - one on a New York City stage and the other in a 16th century palace in Dubrovnik
*survived both altitude sickness and day two of my period at Machu Picchu
*ran from a burning stage at a lantern festival in a field outside of Chiang Mai
*slept in a bedouin tent and heard drummers bang into the night in a star-lit Senegalese desert
*nearly got blown into the sea at the Cliffs of Moher
*watched the sun rise like an electric clementine at Angkor Wat
*forgot nearly everything that wasn't a big thing because I didn't write it down
*confirmed that my preferred brand of anxiety is existential. I blame Bonnie Raitt and the titular track from her spectacular album "Nick of Time", released in my early pre-teens, prompting me to run at half-speed from an invisible clock my entire life
*made my brain fog worse by intensifying my relationship with various screens
*struggled with how to reintroduce myself in this space but have settled for now on "hey, I'm Jenn. i used to write about life as a young(er) woman and now I want to write about life as a middle-aged one. how are your periods?"
*decided this round I'm speaking directly to my midlife ladies so stories are likely to include vegetables, sun hats, backaches, reading glasses, acupuncturists, existential angst, new adventures, travel mishaps, future hopes and dreams, changes in breast shape and size, skincare, rom-coms and death. fellas, you're welcome to stick around but you'll notice I've already referred to periods three times and that's not stopping
ok, I think we're all caught up
is this thing on?
"Did you hear our exciting news?" I asked with a cheeky grin. The question was directed at my mother and father-in-law, who'd just returned from two months away in their native Croatia.
"Well, our dream finally came true. It's the best thing to ever happen to us. Something I've wanted my whole life." They leaned forward. I didn't check their breath but it was definitely bated.
"We got a washer and dryer!" I exclaimed. I still can't believe how blessed we are.
"Oh," said my mother-in-law. "I thought you were going to say something else."
But really, WHAT ELSE IS THERE? I wanted to scream. In New York, a washer and dryer is a way bigger flex than a baby. Every park and playground is full of those. You can't say the same about these puppies.
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my new favorite room in the house |
And when I say we got a washer and dryer, I don't mean we got a new washer and dryer. I mean we got our FIRST washer and dryer. For context, I'm 47 years old. If you've ever lived in a big city, you understand the gravity of this life upgrade. If you haven't, you probably don't even realize how good you've had it all these years. You've just been smugly tossing your dirty pants in a home machine for years, not even patting yourself on the back for being such a baller.
Very, very few people have washer and dryer hookups in their NYC apartments and homes. Most New Yorkers use shared laundry rooms in their apartment basements or haul two to three weeks of filth to their nearest laundromat, wherever that may be. In the first month of Covid, when our corner laundromat shut down, I was scrubbing towels and sweatpants with my sad little chapped hands in our kitchen sink and hanging them on the bathroom shower rod to dry. It was... uncivilized.
Every New Yorker can relate to the experience of hoarding certain items in their closet because they want to wear them next week and laundry ain't happening before then. We're all guilty of letting the hamper pile up and spill over, waiting until our laundry bags are hernia-sized before schlepping them across the street. There's not one of us who hasn't made an emergency Prime order of underpants because we couldn't get to the fluff & fold that week.
We bought our house eight years ago, and though we've made many changes to it over the years, this is the one that finally makes me feel like an actual homeowner and bonafide adult.
So while your family was off picnicking at the beach or barbecuing with neighborhood friends, I spent the slow season reading psychological thrillers and washing every pair of sheets we own.
It was the best summer ever.
I used to work at a Polish-run mental health clinic with a lot of people from the Eastern bloc. They spoke with lovely accents and had last names I often found tricky to say, the kinds with a "c" or "z" on the end of them. My European co-workers brought an air of culture and sophistication to our workplace in a way I never could coming from Texas. One colleague was always impeccably dressed, and wished me “Bon Appetit” whenever she caught me eating lunch alone at my desk. It was a fancy wish for me since I was usually shoveling cold leftovers from plastic Tupperware or slurping down soup from a cracked thermos with a trail of crackers crop-dusting my keyboard.
Another co-worker was a quirky yet dignified man in his mid-seventies. He was originally from Poland but lived many years in France. He owned a weekend home in the Hamptons and trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris for pastry. He eventually quit the clinic to retire in the South of France. I really enjoyed him because he always said things like “Oh! Look at you in zat nice puffy coat! You should not be working here today—you should be skiing up in zee mountains!” or “Here you are again, working late into the night when you should be on zee red carpet!”.
For whatever reason, he worked under the delusion that I was a lady of sophistication and glamour, mostly because I knew about all the new restaurants and never arrived at work covered in cat hair. He was shocked to learn that I didn't live in Manhattan, as he assumed my husband wore chinos and we owned a three-bedroom co-op in the West ‘80s, when the truth was my husband looked like an Allman brother, and we rented an illegal basement in Queens.
On breaks, my co-worker often swung by my open office door to talk about food, which happened to be my favorite topic as well. He was long-winded, and could go 20 minutes discussing the art and science of French pastry, how the exterior of a croissant should crackle at first bite before giving way to a soft chewy interior, or instructions for creating marbled icing to top a perfectly flaky, cream-filled mille-feuille. He spoke in a heavy French accent mixed with a bit of his native Polish, so when he mentioned enjoying programs like “Pioneer Woman” and “Farmhouse Rules”, he surprised me. He seemed more a Julia Child or Lidia Bastianich man.
“I vas watching a program on ze food channel ze other day… this woman lives in some barn in the woods, and she made pork ribs for Christmas Eve! Pork ribs! Horrrr-ible! So common! In Europe, we make 12 different dishes and they are all special. Ugh! I could not believe it.” He threw his hands up in disgust.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him my family ate chili that year for Christmas Eve, and that past years’ menus included beef enchiladas, a backyard fish fry or simply a buffet of tortilla chips shaped like Santa hats and warmed dips from plebian ingredients like canned corn and gloppy cream cheese. We were Texan; we didn't do baked camembert with cubes of baguette-- we melted down a hunk of Velveeta and thew a can of Rotel tomatoes in it. Instead of mussels in butter and white wine, we rolled shrimp in flour and cornmeal or dipped perfectly pink boiled ones into spicy cocktail sauce straight from the jar. I ate po-boys and hushpuppies every day of high school underneath a fishing net at a place called Shrimp n’ Stuff. We served drippy tacos and mac n’ cheese in tiny cast-iron skillets at my wedding reception, where we ate in the middle of a field next to a pen of longhorns and goats. I stepped in cow shit moments before the dinner bell rang.
I wasn’t raised on Coq au Vin or Steak Diane; I grew up with my father’s ribs—beef, by the way; rarely pork—and we’d eat them with spongy corn on the cob and grilled potatoes on the back deck overlooking the water. My mother didn’t make soufflés—she baked casseroles filled with fresh vegetables and topped with buttery breadcrumbs, or chicken pot pie with huge chunks of white potato and tiny green peas and thick sauce that ran all over the crust when you pricked it with your fork. For a treat, my dad and brother mashed cornbread into cold glasses of buttermilk and ate it with long metal spoons. My grandmother never cooked with duck confit. She used lard and butter and Crisco, though these days she reads a lot of Prevention articles and sticks mostly to coconut oil.
This is not to say that the Texas palate is unrefined. My mother and I used to drink tea at four o’clock every afternoon, hot steaming mugs of English Breakfast or Earl Gray. We both sat with one foot on the floor and the other on the table, but still—a 4pm teatime means I come from good stock. Then there was my father, who loved nothing more than a lazy afternoon at an oyster bar. Of course, unlike the fancy places in Brooklyn, they don’t serve Gulf Coast oysters on a silver tray with a squeeze of lemon and a glass of chilled Sancerre; you eat them at a long wooden bar shaped like the front of an old fishing boat with a cold beer and a red plastic basket filled with packets of Saltine crackers, beneath old metal signs littered with phrases like “Ay, yi capitan” or “Show us yer tits”.
I’ve been to restaurants in Manhattan where the meal arrives in stages and with great fanfare, like distinct acts in a three-hour play. Where soft music plays in the background while tiny white plates are painted with purees made from celery root or organic beets before a single lamb chop is placed delicately on top with a pair of tweezers. In these types of places a full meal is a single scallop served on a wasabi leaf, embellished with pickled olives and a teardrop of pink-peppercorn aioli. People spend a lot of time sniffing wine before drinking it, and the wait staff makes six figures.
I enjoy dining at places like this on occasion (the occasion being that I either just got engaged or turned an age with a zero on the end of it) but I’m always too shell-shocked by the bill to truly enjoy the experience and usually walk out craving a cheeseburger. New York City has every type of cuisine imaginable, but I can’t seem to find a $2 breakfast burrito from a wood-paneled trailer or a jar of my grandmother’s buttermilk ranch dressing anywhere, and that still disappoints me. I have no early memories associated with a Michelin-rated restaurant or a perfect cassoulet, and nothing ever tastes as good as nostalgia feels. You won’t catch me asking anyone to pass the Grey Poupon.
I will, however, take an extra paper cup of tartar sauce when you get the chance.