Menopause arrived — and apparently it brought your inner rebellious teenager along for the ride. You can't find your words, you've stopped pretending to care, and you ate ice cream for dinner last night. Welcome to puma puberty: the second adolescence nobody warned you about.
The outfit situation
It doesn't matter if we're going to a fancy restaurant or the opera — I am not wearing heels. That era is over. At home, I live in my stretched-out joggers and my favourite faded T-shirt with the psychedelic green rabbit on it. Sexy? Probably not. Comfortable? Absolutely. It doubles as pyjamas, which is honestly a bonus.
As for what my husband thinks — I didn't ask, and frankly he's wearing the exact same kind of outfit.
Mind-reading required
Fair warning: I'm looking for the word, but it's gone. All I can manage is "you know... the thing... that... whatsit" while waving my hands vaguely in the air. Just figure out what I mean. I believe in you.
The "I'll do it later" era
Yes, I bought a whole bag of spring decorations. No, they're not up yet. They're waiting patiently in the cupboard and honestly, so am I. I'll put them out next year. Maybe.
My viewing habits
My entire TV schedule is true crime documentaries. Unsolved murders, cold cases, serial killer profiles. Is that a problem? Didn't think so.
Unsolicited advice? Hard pass.
If someone wants to give me unasked-for life advice, I no longer have the energy to pretend I'm listening. Eat more vegetables? I know, thanks — I had ice cream for dinner yesterday. Take up weight training for bone density? I'm just happy I survived another night of broken sleep. That's enough of an achievement.
Hot flash, do not touch me
I understand you want to cuddle. I do. But right now, a hot flash has me convinced I am literally on fire, so please stay on your side of the bed until further notice. I will signal when it's safe to approach.
The brain fog is real
I can still recite every lyric to every pop song from thirty years ago without missing a beat. I cannot tell you why I walked into the kitchen. I've made peace with this paradox.
The great experiment
My friends — fellow sufferers, all of them — decided it was finally time to find out what all the fuss was about. One of them got a few pre-rolled joints from her son (pre-rolled, because none of us had the faintest idea how to do it ourselves), and we smoked them on the terrace. We giggled for hours. There was something deeply satisfying about this very late, very middle-aged act of rebellion.
I will check every single item in that bag
The people honking behind me in the drive-through can wait. I am checking this bag thoroughly before I drive away, because if the sauce is missing again, I will either have a meltdown or burst into tears at home. Both have happened. Hormones are something else.
Vaginal apathy and the quiet relief of not caring
After my divorce, I dated enthusiastically from 45 to 50. Then I just... stopped. It's not that men aren't interested in me — it's that they no longer move me. My libido has retreated to the basement, and honestly? There's a strange relief in no longer feeling compelled to chase anyone. The desert has settled in, and it's surprisingly peaceful.
Selective hearing: a superpower
My daughter says I'm acting like a badly raised teenager — and she's not entirely wrong. I now only hear what I choose to hear. If someone tries to get my attention while I'm in the bath or watching my show, I simply decide I didn't catch that. Liberating doesn't even begin to cover it. Highly recommend.
Responsibility? What's that?
This second puberty has unlocked something in me: a magnificent indifference to obligation. The laundry is overflowing? We have plenty of clothes, we'll manage. Nobody's cooking tonight? There's food in the fridge, nobody will starve. The lawn needs mowing? My husband can do it, or nature can take its course — I genuinely don't mind either way.
I spent my entire adult life running on duty and responsibility. Now, I've swallowed the I-don't-care pill and it turns out the world hasn't collapsed. Not even slightly.
Doing the bare minimum at work — and being fine with it
I no longer hustle. I am no longer excited by "challenges." I have learned, through lived experience, that going above and beyond for a company or a boss is largely pointless. I do what's expected of me, I do it well, and then I go home. That's the deal now.
If any of this sounds familiar — congratulations, or condolences, depending on the day. Puma puberty is real, it's messy, and it is somehow both exhausting and freeing at the same time. At least we're not going through it alone.
