I was in my mid-40s when my body and mind staged a subtle insurrection. At least once a week I woke up at 2 a.m., sweat streaming off my skin, then lay awake, my thoughts spiraling from one problem to the next. Fat started migrating to my abdomen in spite of my rigorous daily exercise routine and healthy diet. I found myself blanking on words: Peony. Puree.
I suspected that these changes were portents of The Change and figured I’d white-knuckle my way through. But I wasn’t the only one affected. One night my husband, Gordon, and I were driving home from dinner when he made a wry comment about our teenage son’s forgetfulness—a topic that by turns amused and bemused us. This time, though, I exploded at Gordon, accusing him of being cruel, disloyal, and uncaring. My response was so uncharacteristically savage that he pulled over and said, “I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”
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