Years ago, when middle age seemed like it only happened to other people, I took an Ashtanga class in Montauk. As I clumsily shifted from downward dog to chaturanga, I noticed an older woman at the front of class, with gray braids, a purple T-shirt, and lithe, taut limbs. She seemed to swim from pose to pose, as graceful as a seal in water. A beatific peace emanated from her that I have been thinking about more and more as I enter this next decade: 50. A friend's older sister recently told her that "after 50, you can kiss your beauty goodbye." Could that be true? I may be naive, stubborn, and vain, but I refuse to accept this pronouncement. I don't aspire to be one of those "well-preserved" faces of the Upper East Side or Beverly Hills. I want to become some version of that beautiful wise yoga sage, but how?
A few years ago, I started a morning regimen of 25 minutes of yoga and five minutes of meditation. Brief, achievable, and surprisingly helpful in many ways. I kept to it for quite a while, maybe 18 months, and even started to find a little inner peace, or at least mental clarity. But it became much harder to summon the will once I entered perimenopause. Defined as the 10 or so years before you experience your final period, perimenopause is menopause's dirty little secret, and it can hit at any moment, usually after you turn 40. For me, the onslaught arrived in the form of intense mood swings, alternating bouts of tears and rage, sleeplessness, and weight gain. I thought I was going crazy.
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