Menopause

Yup.

It’s real. It’s on. It’s happening.

Just like my mom. On the verge of 45.

I’m spotting.

Pretty sure I’m getting hot flashes, too.

To be honest, I’m surprised at how well I’m handling it.

I guess it’s because I haven’t really considered myself a young woman since my early thirties, anyway.

Also, I know I still look pretty young. My ladies at the salon couldn’t believe my age when I told them. “Oh my God, you look like a kid!”

That’s what my friend Jackson said, too, but that was in my mid-thirties. At the time I wasn’t sure if he was just being polite. I guess now I know.

I’m sorry, friends, I feel like I can’t tell you enough about my youthful looks, like I hammer it down your throats. I am incredibly boastful about this.

But it’s kinda all I’ve got, right now.

Don’t get me wrong. I like my haircut. It’s cute. She did a good job. All those ladies do. But I do think my bangs are too short, and that it would be a cuter haircut on me if I was thinner.

Is that horribly cruel and self-loathing? Do I sound just like my aunt after she’s had a few? Do you see how I can brag about and shame myself practically in the same breath?

It’s totally sick, I 100% recognize that.

This shit is hardwired into my brain. I know I can change it. Just…how? I want the answer, desperately.

I just don’t know what it is.

With what, exactly, do I replace all the nasty, mean self-talk? What precise words do I say to myself instead? And do I have to believe them right away?

I am a beautiful woman.

I am a beautiful person.

I am not the number on my scale.

I am not my waist circumference.

I am not my dress size.