I have a theory: Perimenopause isn’t preparing us for menopause. It’s preparing us to be reincarnated as men.

Hear me out.

I’m 46, and lately my body has been making decisions without consulting me.

Estrogen has put in her two weeks’ notice. Testosterone has somehow gotten access to the building. And nobody in management seems concerned.

Exhibit A: The Facial Hair

For most of my life, the hair on my face understood the assignment: Stay light. Stay subtle. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

Then perimenopause arrived.

Now every so often, sunlight hits my chin at exactly the wrong angle and…

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?

A hair. Not peach fuzz. A FREAKING HAIR. Dark. Coarse. Approximately seven feet long.

How did I not notice this? Did it grow during the drive from home to work?

Meanwhile, my leg hair has decided production is no longer necessary. So we’re shutting down operations there and reallocating resources to my chin. Excellent business strategy.

Then There’s My Metabolism

There was a time when I could make a few reasonable food choices, move around a little more, and lose a few pounds. That system, however, is no longer functioning. Now I can eat a salad while thinking thin thoughts and somehow gain four pounds overnight.

And where does my body want to store it? My stomach.

Interesting. Belly. Facial hair. Are we seeing the pattern yet?

I Am Also A Fully Operational Furnace Now

I was never a ‘cold’ person, per se. I know some people who are cold all the time, even if it’s eighty degrees outside. That wasn’t me, but I did have the ability to feel and get cold. I had a nice collection of cozy blankets, sweaters and socks.

Don’t need those anymore, because now… I AM THE HEATER.

My husband will be curled up under the blankets while I’m lying on top of the blanket in just a tank top wondering whether opening the bedroom window in January would be unreasonable.

I Have Significantly Less Patience

Maybe it’s hormonal. Maybe it’s age. Maybe I’ve finally realized how much of my life I’ve spent pretending things don’t annoy me.

Someone chewing loudly? Straight to jail.

Someone blocking the grocery aisle with their cart? Prison.

Twenty-five-year-old me wanted everyone to like her. Forty-six-year-old me would simply like everyone to go away.

Which Brings Me Back to My Theory

Let’s review:

Facial hair.

Belly.

Runs hot.

Increasingly grumpy about minor inconveniences.

I am about six hormonal fluctuations away from standing in the garage, staring at a lawn mower and saying: “Well, there’s your problem.”

I assume the next phase involves an unexplained interest in thermostats. Eventually, I’ll start turning off lights around the house and asking whether I’m made of money.

At which point, the transformation will be complete.

Ladies, I don’t think we’re going through menopause.

I think we’re being cross-trained.

The good news is, if I am being prepared for reincarnation as a man, I feel like I’m almost qualified.

I’m growing facial hair. My metabolism has left the building. Everything hurts when I wake up.

Now I just need someone to teach me why it takes four trips to the hardware store to fix one thing, and I’ll be set!