Here’s the deal.
I’m in menopause. It’s kind of like the first time I admitted I am an alcoholic: “Hi. I’m Christine and I’m in menopause.”
I’m sure by looking at me you would never guess. “Golly, she doesn’t look a day over 32.” However, I am a few weeks from 52. I am sure my gynecologist will want to draw blood and do a hormone test to CONFIRM it. She will want to know whether I am in perimenopause or full-blown menopause so we can discuss hormone replacement therapy and osteoporosis.
Seriously, do you think I care? It’s not like I wake up in the middle of the night, dripping wet and ask “Hmm. Is this menopause or perimenopause?” Frankly, I don’t want to know if this is perimenopause. If it is just perimenopause that means it is going to get worse and I don’t need to know that.