Powders, patches and potions

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This morning, I stirred the white powder into a steaming mug of Earl Gray tea, watching it scatter and swirl like a freshly shaken snow globe until it melted from view. The powder is unflavored, but I added a generous dollop of honey so the tea would feel more like a treat and less like a treatment.

But who am I kidding? Lately, everything feels like an attempt to counteract what time is trying to do to me. That white powder is collagen, which I bought because it’s high in protein. Now that I’m in my early 50s, caring about protein is the new job I didn’t apply for but got stuck with anyway. I could walk around all day gnawing on a giant turkey leg and probably still not get the amount of protein I need, now that my estrogen level has abandoned me to go hang out with younger women.

Am I bitter? Maybe a little. I didn’t realize how much my body depended on estrogen until it wasn’t there anymore. I felt the loss all the way down to my bones, which suddenly ached so intensely that, for months, I was convinced I was coming down with the flu.

So, I did what I always do when I’m worried and confused: read and ask questions. And that led me to hormone replacement therapy, which comes in a doctor-prescribed, quarter-sized patch that I put on my skin a couple times each week. It has been my sticky little savior. No more body aches or unnecessary sweating or wanting to punch someone in the face for eating chips too loudly.

But the handy little hormone patch can’t do everything. I take turmeric to fight inflammation, magnesium for muscle function, and vitamin B for brain health. I won’t mention the ridiculous size of the supplements or how they sometimes get stuck in my throat, making me sound like a cat hacking up a hairball. I’m far too busy aging gracefully to complain about such trivial things.

At my last checkup, my doctor told me to eat more protein and do weight-bearing exercise to keep my middle-aged bones from becoming osteoporotic Swiss cheese. So I’m walking while carrying weights, and I drink the collagen powder in my tea because when estrogen drives off a cliff, collagen rides shotgun, just like Thelma and Louise.

Speaking of cars, this whole phase of life would be so much easier if both men and women could drop off our bodies for a tune-up and give the mechanic a to-do list: “Yeah, go ahead and put this thing up on the lift, change out the fluids, and clean the fuel injectors so it won’t be so sluggish. While you’re at it, find out why it’s making all those popping noises. Then swap out the spark plugs because half the time, this old thing can’t even think of the word she’s trying to say or why she came into a room. Might be time to rebuild the whole engine. Call me when it’s done.”

Trust me when I tell you this is not about vanity. When I was in my teens, twenties and thirties, that’s exactly what it was about. If I was eating right and working out, it was because I wanted to be a little red Corvette. But these days, I’m just trying to do whatever it takes to be a sensible sedan that doesn’t break down on the interstate.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to figure out how to consume 50 more grams of healthy protein before sunset. Then I’ll put on a fresh estrogen patch so I can live within earshot of innocent people eating corn chips.

Buckle up, everybody. The fifties are turning out to be so much fun.

Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.

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