Cougar Puberty: Electric Boogaloo
[FROM THE ARCHIVES] Previously, on the Gen-X Journals ... the re-run you never asked for
I Confess
Forgive me, Substack, for I have sinned. It's been 15 days since my last confession, and I'm still feeling apathetic (and/or simply pathetic?) AF. Given this, and the fact that I have zero interest in sharing anything I’ve been writing lately, and especially in honor of my body deciding to re-start the meno-clock last week (IYKYK, #FML), please enjoy this period piece from the archives, with minor modifications.
I was born in 1970, and for the first half of the subsequent decade I was certain I had a giant red “A” emblazoned on my chest. Not because I’d done anything Hester Prynne-like. As if. No, the imaginary accessory on my adolescent attire stood for ABNORMAL.
Why did I feel like such a pariah, beyond the usual adolescent insecurities? Because most of my female peers started their periods by the time they were 13, at the absolute latest. I, on the other hand, was halfway through high school before the bleeding began.
It didn’t help that my mother was deeply concerned about this developmental delay, amongst others, even as she expressed horror at the increasing size of my ass.
“Oh no,” she winced, scrutinizing my curves while sitting in the dressing room where I was trying on 8th grade back-to-school outfits. “You’ve got Granny Turner’s bottom!”
The details of that moment were instantly seared in my memory, right down to the black Calvin Klein corduroy miniskirt and top we decided would be most flattering (translation: I wouldn’t look like such a cow). Thus began a lifelong battle with my body, and an appreciation for all-black attire that persists to this day.
But the absence of a period fed my inferiority complex most of all, and I’ve self-identified as a late-bloomer ever since. I even documented it in a teen magazine article 25-plus years ago, hoping my experiences might help girls going through the same sort of thing.
Bad Blood
When Aunt Flow finally showed up in 1986, I could barely contain my excitement. At last, I was a woman! (Because as we all know, nothing defines us more than the ability to conceive.) When I raced upstairs to tell my mom the good news, she was ecstatic, and went to grab some pads.
“No need!” I smiled with a toss of my bilevel bob. I was already a pro at using tampons, having practiced my insertion techniques for the previous several years.
As you can probably guess, the thrill that came with this particular rite of passage was brief as a Mormon wife’s season of The Bachelorette.
Those in the know had obviously warned me that being on the rag would be rough, but this? This was hell in a Benetton bag. The cramps. The clots. The bloating. The breakouts.
Worst of all were the mood swings, and it wasn’t long before hormonal rage became a primary part of my personality. Every four weeks, like clockwork, I transformed into the moodiest little monster known to this mortal coil.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic (of course I am…we’re talking sophomore year here), but riding the crimson wave became the absolute bane of my existence.
Lies
I’d love to say things settled down after high school. But when I got to college, I’m convinced most campus coeds quickly learned when to avoid me each month.
It didn’t help that I suffered from hormonal acne, made infinitely worse thanks to dermatillomania (skin-picking). One time it got so bad that I pretended to have chickenpox, just so I could isolate until my face calmed down.
Pretty sure my suite mates from back then still don’t know I was faking it. But if you’re reading this, Wendy, Stacy, Jen, et al, please know I was only trying to protect you (along with my public image).
Under Pressure
There was the odd occasion when I turned my menstrual lemons into lemonade (maybe not the best idiom but let’s just go with it?). On one especially sunny day in San Diego, I was at the mall (probably shopping for black clothes) when I felt that familiar little river starting to flow down below.
Searching for a bathroom, I couldn’t seem to escape an unrelenting parade of the perkiest people I’d ever encountered. (Today we call this toxic positivity, and it’s always been punishingly prevalent in SoCal.) I was irritated beyond belief until it hit me: This could be perfect material for an assignment I’d been struggling with in my “Writing for Performance” class.
When I got back to my apartment, I wrote down all the thoughts that had been racing through my mind, complete with a rudimentary chord structure. Later that week, I wailed those words into the darkened auditorium from a dimly-lit stage, beat-up acoustic guitar in hand. And the crowd went wild.
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Here’s the real kicker: It’s now 2026. I am 56 years old. And I’m still bleeding. It has been 40 years, people! Even my doctors gasp when I tell them the date of my last period. (It was January 28 July 20, if you’re interested, and I’m hoping against hope I’m finally so apparently I am not yet done.)
Crunching the numbers further, I’ve been perimenopausal for at least 10 years. We’re talking hot flashes, night sweats, some of the heaviest and most painful periods of my life, vertigo, insomnia, and crippling brain-fog that ultimately made it tough to keep up the pace in my publishing career.
Talk Talk
In 2017, when my symptoms began escalating, I launched a Facebook support group called ALL THE RAGE: Midlife, Menopause, and More. Connecting with other women in this way offered an incredible amount of comfort, courage, and serious comic relief.
In fact, during the near-decade that has followed (with a few detours into complicated grief and depression, thanks in part to the pandemic and my father’s death), my hormones have seemed to be handing me a bottomless glass of lemonade. No, not in the form of performance art pieces (unless this Substack counts?!).
I’m talking about connecting with fellow sufferers, including lifelong friends from my formative years. I may sound like a pollyanna, but perimenopause has provided a legit touchpoint for raw, unfiltered conversations and the kind of female bonding I’ve been sorely missing, especially while consumed with career, marriage, parenthood, and all the adulting things.
I guess it’s similar to finding community through any kind of trauma…and my cup (of lemonade, tea, coffee, tequila?) runneth over.
Also, thanks to all the resources exchanged, I took a closer look at HRT MHT a few years ago. I know it’s not for everyone, but after doing the research and determining the benefits would outweigh the risks — even with my family history of breast cancer —I’ve found it to be an absolute lifesaver. Literally no more night sweats or hot flashes, a bit less brain fog, lighter periods, and even a slightly improved mood (I mean, it’s not that magical).
ED: There’s also a bit of a sequel to the HRT/MHT here.
I’m not saying life is now perfect by any means (the world is a brutal place!), but I’m feeling better than I have in a long time, and I credit my Gen-X sisterhood in particular for keeping me sane.
You might even say they’re The Wind Beneath My Wings.
A decade of this. Good lord. All of this is so relatable. It really is hell. Plus I have the same risk profile and have had the same experience with MHT. All this fun in common. Here’s hoping your started over clock is the real last one.