Recently, in a moment of pure desperation (and possibly hormone-fueled panic), I inquired about a new weight loss program I saw on TV. The struggle is real. Somehow, I’ve gained five whole pounds since the summer and I swear, it wasn’t from consuming too many croissants in Paris or Sangrias in Spain (I think). What in the name of estrogen-imbalance is going on?I sat at my kitchen table frustrated, determined, confident and made a declaration: the time has come! I refuse to ‘roll’ into my 50s feeling like a perimenopausal statistic, constantly being told by mom, “These are normal life changes hokis (Armenian for sweetheart) … just accept it!” Blah. Blah. Blah.I decided to take matters into my own hands. I made myself the ultimate “healthy woman” breakfast this morning - Greek yogurt, blueberries and a spoonful of flax seeds (which, according to the internet, help with irritability, though my husband is ready to file a formal complaint on that claim). Then I filled out the online form, ready to reclaim my balance, my energy and my jeans (that still fit) but no longer deserve the title ‘fat jeans’.I hit submit. I waited. I felt hopeful. And then…“Our weight loss program isn’t a good match for you at the moment. Your current BMI is not well suited for treatment.”Excuse me… WHAT?! ‘At the moment? This IS the moment. What moment are we waiting for? What happened to being proactive!?Apparently, I’m too healthy to qualify, too small to lose weight and too average for assistance. So now we’re segregating the skinny-chubby-ish folks? Let me tell you, when you’re only five feet tall, gaining 5lbs pounds is basically like packing on 10lbs for the average person.I wasn’t asking for a miracle. I didn’t want a shot (maybe just a little), a pill (I mean…), or a motivational text from a bot named “Scale Slayer Sandy.” I just wanted a roadmap back to my pre-hormonal self, and some accountability to kick my butt back into shape. Instead, my BMI decided to gaslight me in the cruelest way possible. WTF.Evidently, perimenopause is the ultimate game player. Your body starts playing by new rules and doesn’t even care to send a ‘Hey Queen, heads up!’ memo. One day, you’re crushing hot yoga and Pilates, the next, your jeans are cutting off circulation and you’re googling “Can stress cause back fat?”So no, I don’t want to “accept it.” I want answers. I want balance, and maybe for some understanding that five pounds, whether you’re a small-framed person like me, or not, in perimenopausal math is basically thirty in emotional weight.Turning half a century old hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park or a simple hot flash in yoga pants (note: still waiting on the “hot flashes” to occur) but being surrounded by a tribe of fabulous women who’ve already crossed this milestone, I’ve learned a lot.While recently out for dinner with friends, I dramatically sighed over the dreaded question, “Soooooo, what are your plans for your 50th?” one of the ladies chimed in, as she sipped her Pinot:“Girl, 50 is incredible. It’s the age where you finally stop giving a F$%# about anything!”I almost dropped my slice of prosciutto pizza onto my fried calamari. Wait what? You mean, at this new stage, people’s opinions, guilt trips, and unsolicited advice just don’t matter anymore? Sign. Me. Up!!For someone like me who’s spent most of her life making sure everyone else is happy, empathizing, apologizing, harmonizing (and overanalyzing) that statement hit me like an estrogen-filled truth bomb.My #1 mantra has always been to spread kindness in life. I will still live by that rule, but let’s be real, “Killing them with kindness” may sound nice on Pinterest, but in real life, it’s often code for swallowing your feelings and smiling through clenched teeth & stress induced cold sores. Nope. Not anymore. Fifty means pulling up our big-girl Alo leggings, speaking our minds, and letting our “kindness” take a well-deserved nap (still there, just resting a bit).It means finally saying no without guilt (I will work on this relentlessly), yes to dessert (chocolate-filled-Cannoli & sticky toffee pudding, bring it on) and ‘maybe later’ to anyone who drains my energy because of their own lack of kindness or unresolved issues. It’s the magical age where self-respect becomes your new skincare routine and honestly, it’s more effective than beef tallow (ok maybe not, but let’s pretend).So, here’s to all my the hot-flashing, jalapeno-chip-eating, flax-seed-sprinkling, tequila-sipping lady warriors who are rewriting what 50 looks like. It’s time to stop apologizing for our brain fog, our emotional rollercoasters, or our love of chocolate chip cookies! Let’s eat the Cannoli, sip the tequilas, and sprinkle flax seeds with pleasure. Fifty isn’t ‘the end’ it’s the upgrade series. It’s our hard-earned VIP pass to say what we want, do what we love, and finally give a F$%# (or not) to what matters most! We’re not “over the hill” we OWN the mountain ladies, and if you’re lucky, we might even let you hike it with us - in Iceland, St Lucia, or wherever we decide to go - 5lbs & one jalapeño chip at a time!!
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