I am a bicentennial baby in the throes of perimenopause. Spirit of ‘76, baby.
The United States is a young democracy, and I am becoming, ahem, a woman of a certain age.
My social media feed alternates between the latest doomsday political scenario to vitamins promising to tame belly fat more stubborn than a toddler at bedtime.
This is another turning-50 column from a woman reckoning with aging and body change. Like most women in their 20s, I chafed at plastic surgery. Never considered going under the knife or allowing needles in my cheekbones. Women should age gracefully, and what kind of contradiction would it be to claim feminism and fillers, I thought. Well, now I’m less judgmental, and it has nothing to do with the male gaze. So I tell myself. Aging is a blessing — and a reminder of fading youth, because I gain 10 pounds if I glance at a croissant.
Watching influencers be open about Botox in their 20s or tweens ruining their future skin for complex skin care routines is concerning. Because I came of age before the era of filters and ring lights, I feel a little less vulnerable to the perfection demanded via social media. I refrain from comparing myself to Instagram baddies. But sometimes when I look in the mirror, I am amazed at how much I’ve physically changed in a couple of years. Lines around the mouth. Puffy eyes. I’m too scared of surgery and absolutely reject copying the cartoonish Mar-a-Lago face favored by MAGA women in the limelight. But maybe a little Botox and subtle cheek plumping are the tonic I need.
Then I remember I’m lazy. You have to keep up that habit of injections or you’ll fade back to your true self. I have neither the time nor money for ongoing maintenance. Kinda why I don’t dye my hair. I’m holding out hope to become a silver fox. But the grays are uncooperative and wiry. Kinda like the new chin hairs I pull — one of my latest hobbies.
If I stop midsentence, the brain fog takes over like a Chicago summer thunderstorm. Don’t expect me to remember my thoughts. Our group chats share portable fan and eye cream recommendations. I complain about weighing the most I’ve ever been but still pour a second class of champagne to go with fried chicken. The bright side of this new phase is my friends and feed have language (hello, perimenopause!) to complain about interrupted sleep and irritability. Halle Berry is speaking up about menopause and advocating for Congress to spend more money on research. I follow Dr. Sharon Malone for advice on hormone therapy and tips for surviving this life chapter. Scant research exists on perimenopause or menopause. Go figure.
As women speak up and name their issues to doctors and anyone else who will listen, it’s important to dismiss shame and to share life changes. At the same time, our country is changing, and it’s important to name those threats and rotten politics gnawing at democracy. I recently traveled to Washington, D.C., and drove by federal buildings flanked with American flags and the president’s face in celebration of 250 years.
I couldn’t help but think of “Botched,” the reality show where doctors try and fix plastic surgeries gone wrong.
Maybe it’s not me who needs the glow-up.
Our country could use more than a corrective nip and tuck to reverse the deep cracks that keep settling in, disfiguring the dewy sheen of hope and promise.
Natalie Y. Moore is a senior lecturer at Northwestern University.