ArcaMax

One way to know you're in your 40s is that you still open BuzzFeed listicles. I'm sorry, it was beyond my control! My phone's news app spooned me this highly targeted content, and I had no choice but to slap the black mirror for dopamine like an infant gumming pureed banana.

The factory-farmed piece was culled from r/Xennials on Reddit, home to niche microgeneration analysis such as thoughts on Felicity's haircut and "Ernest Goes to Camp." As someone born in the wistful summer of 1983, this page is, how they say in France, very much my &^%#.

The conversations on the forum can be more meaningful, too, along the lines of how to parent a teenager going through active shooter drills at school. Or in this case, what in the name of Ross Geller is happening to my body? Highlights: trigger thumb, insomnia, arthritis, nerve pain, heartburn, ailing vision and hearing, forgetfulness and general physical grotesquerie.

And, look, I realize that the 40s are not the 80s or 90s, that some of you are gearing up the old email to fire off a, "JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU'RE DEAD, MISSY!" But I do think talking about Our Changing Bodies is a valuable and undercooked discussion, especially among those of us with a uterus. For my entire public school health education, we were told we would be beaten senseless by our monthly shame until one day we looked up and it stopped flowing like the end of the River Styx.

It turns out, there's a whole host of years between menstruation and menopause in which our bodies start having a fervent pickleball match with our hormones in preparation for the inevitable moment we join a pastel group living situation with our friends Blanche, Rose and Sophia. Thankfully, perimenopause is having a cultural moment. One of my favorite novels of 2024 was "All Fours" by Miranda July, a definitive perimenopause story that fully scandalized my book club until we had an extra wine and gave in to a fascinating conversation about unspoken corporeal phenomena. The best horror movie of the year was "The Substance," all about the perils of chasing youth and beauty. More recent reporting in publications shows a generation of women are breaking down in doctor's offices because there's so little information about why we cry at the mere SUGGESTION of a "Defying Gravity" cover.

Anyway, if there are any men left reading, hi! I got to thinking about a few other weird things that started happening to me once I crossed the threshold into 40, including everything from the rejection of my appendix to a nonbinding diagnosis of "unspecified autoimmune, something involving the eyes and being the responsible daughter, IDK, check back in 10 years for lupus?"

What else?

Tequila is very bad! I had some at a party recently, and I was unwell for days. DAYS. I have always been more of a wine drinker than a shots person, but at this juncture of life, I felt like Grandpa Joe in "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" before he got lifted out of his sickbed by the promise of capitalism.

Actually, let's add "inexplicable attraction to Gene Wilder."

I can remember all the lyrics to "Not in Nottingham" from the 1973 animated classic "Robin Hood," but I cannot remember if I have taken my beta-blocker three seconds after swallowing it. This is bad; if I take a second one, it will be like tequila all over again. Yes, I do have a pill case, but one must remember to fill it, mustn't one?

The gray hairs? They're growing in with a completely different texture from the others? It's like... Funfetti frosting?

Mmm, Funfetti.

My bursts of energy come at precisely 3 p.m. and no earlier. I've spoken to another friend of the same age about this phenomenon, because it seems counterintuitive to all I've learned about aging. It seems we should be doing some version of sundowning at this time, but this is when I start mainlining caffeine and get the most work done. This tendency makes hitting 4 p.m. deadlines problematic, but no one needs to know all that. Oh... wait.

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Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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