Page 75 of This Is Who I Am

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I sit with my arms crossed, sipping the peppermint tea Suzy passed around earlier.

Savor has been transformed for the occasion. The tables have been pushed aside, a few candles flicker along the bar, and the chairs are arranged in a circle.

“All right, ladies,” Suzy says. “Welcome toHot Flash Hour. Which, you must admit, sounds better thanDry Vagina Diaries.” She grins at us.

A round of chuckles bubbles up, even from me. If I had known it would be Suzy Ireland’s comedy hour, I might have shown my face sooner.

“Let’s do a quick check-in,” Suzy continues. “Mood, symptom, craving.”

“Mood: irritable,” says Linda. “Symptom: joint pain. Craving: murder.”

“For anyone in particular?” Suzy deadpans.

“My husband,” Linda says without missing a beat. “If he tells me to ‘just take a nap’ one more time, I might ‘just take a knife.’”

“I’ll arrange to bake one especially for you into my next batch of brownies,” Suzy replies. “Next!”

“Honestly?” says another woman. “Mood: hopeless. Symptom: night sweats. Craving: a different life.”

The questions go around the circle. When it gets to me, all heads swivel.

I sigh. “Mood: raw. Symptom: missing Estelle. Craving…” I shrug. “Not peppermint tea.”

A few murmurs of sympathy ripple through the group. I don’t usually open up in front of strangers, but here we are.

“At least you’re honest,” Suzy says, giving me a warm smile. “That’s is what we’re here for. Honesty. Solidarity. Shared hormone-fueled rage.”

“I miss wine,” someone says.

“We all miss wine,” Suzy answers. “But wine makes the night sweats worse.” As far as I know—and I do—Suzy doesn’t follow her own ‘no wine’ rule whatsoever.

“I don’t care,” Linda says. “Let me sweat with a cabernet in hand.”

There’s a burst of laughter, which feels surprisingly good in my chest.

Suzy leans forward, ignoring our calls for booze. “Tonight’s topic is: What’s changed about you that you didn’t expect?”

There’s a brief pause, then Linda speaks again. “My tolerance for bullshit. It’s gone. Utterly vanished.”

“I used to be the peacekeeper,” another woman chimes in. “Now I just say, ‘Nope, not today,’ and walk away.”

“I cry during commercials now,” I add. I’ve cried while watching TV three times this week.

“That’s hormonesandheartbreak,” Suzy says gently. “Give yourself a break.”

“I don’t recognize myself sometimes,” someone whispers.

“You’re not alone,” Suzy says. “Our bodies are changing. Our minds are changing. And sometimes we mourn the version of ourselves that felt more… in control. But she’s still in there. Just with better boundaries and a worse memory.”

“Worse everything,” someone mutters.

Suzy laughs. “Perhaps, but there’s also the better perspective. More compassion. Deeper friendships. And—this one’s important—finally being done giving a shit about what anyone thinks of us.”

“Except ourselves,” I say. The words escape me before I can think them through.

Suzy tilts her head at me. “Maybe that’s our next topic, then. Forgiving ourselves for not being who we used to be—and learning to love who we are now.”

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