If I had to capture perimenopause in one image, it would be me on this frosty October morning, clad in a nightgown, ratty fur, reading glasses and rubber gloves, weeping copiously and sweating profusely as I rifled through the garbage can in front of my building because I absent-mindedly threw out Grace’s favorite toy while cleaning up. Brain fog: check. Sudden sweats: check. Major mood swings: check. Cat mind control: always. This stage of life requires a very specific aesthetic–and sense of humor. I call it dowager chic. (PS: I found said toy.)
