I went to visit my daughter’s speed coach, Cindy, the other day. She’s the kind of woman who is easy to crush on –super smart, generous with her time, and, above all, kick-ass tough. She trains sprinters and long-distance runners, soccer players and dancers . . . basically any kind of athlete who wants to move faster and more efficiently, which means fine-tuning form and making all of the many muscles involved strong and happy. The fact that she’s a contemporary of mine, and “sciences the shit” out of her own aging process, makes her all the more awesome and inspiring.

Like a good student, I arrived at her studio with a question in hand: could my 50-year old body survive my bucket-list dream of running a half-marathon? While we initially talked about the strain of miles on knees and hips (the goal being to hold on to your original parts), and the toll running takes on your face (too much pounding can cause it to fall . . . screech, what? Running will make me even more jowly?), she quickly turned our conversation from my racing ambitions to the content of my original text, which said, “Need a fitness reboot. I’m a hot mess!” Oh, right, my cry for help. How typical of me to gloss over a need by inserting a goal.

The back-story is that twelve short months ago, I was, arguably, in the best shape of my life –strong, lean, and full of energy. Following a health crisis in my mid-forties, I made exercise a top priority, and the commitment paid off in spades. There wasn’t much I wasn’t willing to try and being able to keep up with my active family once again was pure joy. But then things began to change, so stealthily that I barely paid attention to the steady shift in my weight and energy, the disappearance of my sex drive (clearly I had deaf ears for my husband), and a curious new habit of binge-watching sitcoms while drinking chardonnay. Like my children who mechanically chide “I got this,” I chalked up all the change to a busy life, dismissing the hormone dump and resulting lethargy that was overwhelming my body; denying the fact that I was not only in menopause, I was practically done.

Next month will mark one full year of no periods for me, which the medical world perfunctorily sites as the “permanent end of your fertility” –no ceremony, no gold watch for the years of service, just a pink slip and a dispassionate request for you to step to the other side of the imaginary (and universal) line that categorizes a woman as old versus young. And I get it: menopause makes your body feel and look old, not to mention the accompanying psychological effects. No longer can I write “woman of child-bearing age” at the top of my resume. For the past 35 years –whether from conventions I adopted being raised in a traditional, male-centric household, or the instant status that a period provided me—WOCBA, with its monthly reminder, has been my primary identity. My hot mess wasn’t just due to hot flashes, but a crisis of self as well.

Cindy patiently listened to my menopausal confession (which felt so good to get off of my chest) and advised me on key areas of focus like stress reduction, bone density, and heart health. Then it was time to sweat, and she put me through a dynamic workout that left my quads quivering and unable to climb stairs for the next two days. If I was going to run any kind of marathon, she said, I’d need to build my strength. Lamenting my sore muscles, I took to the sofa for some Big Bang Theory and a crisp glass of white, contemplating how hard it is to change habits –my diet, my exercise, and, especially, my point of view. And then I thought, what if menopause is actually the most liberating time of my life? A new chapter no longer defined or driven by my biology; a time when the playing field might actually be level; an opportunity for me to rewrite my resume any way I want. The revelation sends a rush of adrenaline through my body. I snap off the television, put down my wine glass, and grab my sneakers. Jowls, be damned . .  . I’m going for a run.

 

Note: The only half-decent synonym I could find for menopause was “change in life.” Bring it.