The last text I read, from a triathlete friend, repeated in my thoughts. “How about you? What are you up to?”  I spent some time mentally crafting my response.

I thought about what I was doing at the moment – lying on a paper covered table in a softly lit room with quiet new-age music playing calmly and faintly from a radio next to me. Tiny little needles stuck out of my ears, forehead, hands, feet, neck, and I’m not sure where else.

“How about me?”

Lying in the dark, I was part porcupine covered in quills, part possum, just happy to be getting some rest after a couple of nights of crappy hot-flash interrupted sleep. My regular trip to the acupuncturist, trying to get hormones in balance and perimenopause symptoms to a manageable place.

“What am I up to?”

A rush of things came to mind…”I’m getting slower…in everything” “I’m trying to figure out how to get my muscles to do the things I remember them doing, last year.” “I’m re-learning how to eat and fuel, now that my body apparently processes everything differently because of changed hormones.” “And I whine and fuss about each workout more than I can remember.”

Then, I think I woke myself up with a knee twitch. “I’m learning. I’m in transition. I’m transforming.”

“I’m in the crusty cocoon of perimenopause hoping to transform into a beautiful menopausal butterfly athlete.”

…

Yup, that’s what I’m up to!

I can’t write that. That would be more than he bargained for.

“I’m starting to pick things up again.” Much better.

(But really, I’m in the crusty coccoon, if you’re looking for me.)