menopause | Good Times with Jess

I’ve had my nose to the grindstone this past year and when I looked up everyone was wearing a weighted vest.

Or at least people my age.

My beach buddy uses one and she mentioned it last summer, but unlike this summer, there was no sign of them in my news feed, so I continued to go for my weightless walks.

A couple weeks ago I told her I was considering one. Two more beach buddies piped up about their vests.

Then I was driving back from Cuffy’s (can never have too many things that say Cape Cod), and there was a woman walking with what I can now identify immediately as a weighted vest.

Everybody’s been wearing them and I had no idea. Now it was just a matter of which vest.

As I perused the reviews of different vests, one said,

“If you’re middle-aged and you don’t have one, what are you even doing?”

What have I been doing?

I’ve been walking unweighted.

Some people said the vest is ridiculous and just put on a backpack.

It brought me back 8.5 years to when we lived in Boston and the only way BB breastfed or slept was in a moving sling attached to my body.

I went for so many weighted walks.

I’m not sure how much money someone would have to pay me to do that again, but the feeling of the weighted vest high up on the top of my body as opposed to a backpack or a baby is worth the purchase.

I’m addicted to walking. I’m going to walk no matter what. I don’t have unlimited time for walking. So adding the weight and getting some thigh burn feels ideal.

Don’t even talk to me about running. Not my thing. Not happening. Last time I ran was when we were on the beach and RB said,

“I need to go potty, the poop is coming out.”

Even then I slowed to a trot.

My thighs need to be ready for skiing in the Alps by the first week of December. I do not intend to be the last travel advisor down the mountain.

In the meantime, I’ll be wandering around suburbia 16 pounds heavier. Chest hair optional.

When I put in weighted vests, these popped up. Good to know there are hairy options.

This weighted vest kept gaining weight and was a little fussy.

Forgive the million photos of BB in the sling. There are SO MANY. She lived in there for the better part of a year.

Weighted baby sling arrives in suburbia, circa 2017. I did not consider myself middle-aged yet.

I’m officially 40! My Cape Cod and Alaska celebrations are in the rearview and middle age is stretching out ahead of me.

Wikipedia defines middle age as 45 – 65, so maybe I can delude myself for another few years.

All of a sudden I’m thinking about menopause, but wikipedia also mentions that I will now be beginning my cognitive decline, so maybe I’ll forget about it.

I’ve always had irritable mood swings with my period. I’m happy to warn Captain about them ahead of time, but beware the person who asks about it mid-PMS.

As much as my irritableness is unjustified, it is very hard to come to terms with that in the moment. That is what alarms me about menopause. How much of an emotional roller coaster will I be on and how long will it be until I feel like myself?

I understand that I might have another eight years before I need to worry about this, but it makes me even more nervous that no one is talking about it.

I feel like I was blindsided when I had my first baby and I don’t intend to be blindsided again if I can help it.

I’ve taken to crowdsourcing the topic at the beach. I’ve heard some interesting takes on it, including some people with no irritableness. Must be nice.

I jut my finger into Captain,

“What’s coming for him?”

Several beach buddies pipe up:

“Nothing.”

“A belly.”

Nothing or maybe nothing with a belly. Grrrumph.

The talk turns to how popular botox has become. If I had some extra money to throw around, the first thing I’d do is get some hair lasered. Maybe that’s next year’s birthday present.

As I contemplate my inevitable decline, I wake up with my right eye swollen shut. A stye one day before my birthday. One day before I’m trying to look forty and fabulous at a fancy dinner. I’m beside myself.

Every spare moment I had was spent hanging over the sink with a warm washcloth pressed against my eyeball. And every spare thought willing it to go away.

Sunglasses and a tiara did wonders to disguise it at the beach.

By dinner time it was much better and makeup took care of the rest. I’ve never been happier to return to my status quo.

Bring it on middle age. I’ll take what I’ve got, minus the mood swings, stye and chin hair.