Written in January 2026
It was inevitable really. One day I was going to arrive at that stage of life when my reproductive organs started to close down and my hormones went utterly haywire, and it’s been happening in stages for more than a year.
I’ve been quietly accepting this. I never wanted kids so there’s been no grieving for the loss of a function I wasn’t going to use, and which has frankly been a pain in my… well, close enough eh?
Over the last couple of weeks the perimenopause experience I had experienced fleetingly and occasionally has ramped up. I’m talking about the hot flush. They’re turning me into a hot mess.
It’s currently winter in the UK, which means jumpers, heavy winter coats and so on. This means when a hot flush strikes I’ve got to strip off a heavy coat and probably another layer, somehow co-ordinating this with my bag (which is small rucksack rather than a handheld or cross-body style as it’s better for my back and it holds more).
If I’m in a shop I also need to co-ordinate this with my basket or items I’m holding, as well as try not to injure innocent fellow shoppers while flailing desperately to remove the coat which has suddenly become 60-tog rated due to my internal combustion engine.
The continual transition of clothing layers on and off, movement of bags, baskets, items and what-have-you, is getting pretty dysregulating, and given that irritability is another perimenopause experience, I am unsurprisingly hacked off.
I’ve written about my body’s inability to regulate it’s temperature before, in pieces about being autistic in the heat and the cold, and now I have an extra vasomotor issue to deal with on top.
I suspect this summer will be one where I have a fan or two, cooling spray and several ice packs on my person at all times. Because clearly what I need is a larger, heavier bag to add to the mix…