Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Fiber-Tini.
I woke up Sunday night drenched in sweat—not the cute, post-Peloton kind of sweat, but the kind that makes you question whether you’ve sprung a leak. I was so soaked I had to get up, change my shirt, and briefly consider burning my sheets as a safety precaution. My hair was plastered to my neck like I’d just crawled out of a swamp, my pillow looked like it had survived a natural disaster, and my glasses fogged up from the steam rising off my own body.
I stood there in the dark, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—a damp, bewildered woman who used to sleep peacefully and now apparently hosts nightly reenactments of The Poseidon Adventure. I thought, So this is forty-something. This is perimenopause. Delightful.
Then, the next day, it happened again—in Walgreens, of all places. I was halfway down the vitamin aisle when my internal thermostat decided to reenact Chernobyl. One minute, I was fine; the next, I was melting into the floor like a human candle under fluorescent lights that I swear doubled as heat lamps. My glasses slid down my nose, my hair started curling in real time, and I could feel my dignity evaporating with my electrolytes.
I looked around and thought, Is this hell? Am I in Walgreens hell?
A woman next to me was comparing fish-oil brands, and I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and whisper, “Enjoy this time. Cherish your estrogen. It’s leaving you soon.” Meanwhile, everyone else was strolling around like it was a pleasant 68 degrees and breezy, and I was over here living out The Inferno in aisle five.
At one point, I opened the freezer door in the ice-cream section just to feel something cold on my face. That’s when I realized: I’ve become that woman—the one who fan-flirts with frozen peas and pretends she’s “just comparing brands.”
And as if that weren’t humbling enough, my mother recently suggested I start taking Metamucil. Not because I’m constipated (though let’s be honest, that day is coming), but because her doctor told her it “keeps things moving.”
Now I drink my little orange cocktail of fiber and defeat every morning, pretending it’s self-care instead of surrender. I stir it with purpose. I sip it with delusion. I tell myself it’s wellness, even though it tastes like citrus-flavored despair and probably means I’m one step closer to joining AARP. This is what self-care looks like in your forties: spontaneous combustion, emotional whiplash, and a digestive routine I apparently share with octogenarians.
And because the universe has a sense of humor, Instagram has now decided to join the conversation. The other day, I opened the app and was immediately greeted by an ad for WeightWatchers for Menopause—starring Queen Latifah, no less, smiling down at me like, Welcome to the club, girl.
I mention Metamucil one time, and suddenly my phone’s trying to sell me hormone-friendly meal plans and sensible shoes. Between the hot flashes and the targeted ads, I think my iPhone’s in perimenopause too.
Lately, though, I’ve been thinking maybe I should just lean into it—add a little vodka to the mix and call it a brunch spritzer. Fiber-tini. Metamule. I’m not saying I’ve started using my Metamucil as a mixer, but I’m not not saying it’s an idea worth exploring. Especially for Saturday brunch.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I start my day with Metamucil, end it with melatonin, and spend the hours in between wondering if my hormones are running on shuffle.
So yeah, between the hot flashes, the mood swings, and my new fiber-based lifestyle, it’s been a banner week—and it’s only Tuesday. 🤦♀️
But on the bright side, at least I’m hydrated.
And, you know… regular.
Absurdities and Fires 