It’s 24:00, that magical hour when normal people are deep in the fog of dreams, either being chased by something symbolic or winning imaginary arguments they’ll never have in real life.

Not me.

At 22:00, I was a responsible adult. I brushed my teeth, dimmed the lights, whispered sweet promises of “tonight we sleep early,” and slid into bed like someone who has their life together.

At 22:07, my sausage dog decided we do not, in fact, have our life together.

She whined.

I ignored her.

She whined louder, with the emotional intensity of a full-blown opera performance.

So I got up. Quick pee break, I thought. In and out. Back to bed.

No.

Three times. THREE. TIMES.

At this point, I’m not sure if she has a bladder the size of a pea or if she’s just conducting some kind of psychological endurance experiment.

Now it’s midnight. I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended me.

And yes, I could blame the dog. And I will, publicly. But privately… I know.

It’s the hormones.

Second month of trying progesterone. Round two. The sequel nobody asked for.

Progesterone, they said, will help you sleep.

Progesterone said: let’s try something new — mild chaos, anxiety…

Today was actually a full, productive, “look at me being an adult” kind of day. Doctor’s appointment early morning, PI planning during the day, commute to the office, even voted for the workers council like a responsible citizen.

I lived. I thrived. I functioned.

And now?

I lie here. Betrayed by biology.

Perimenopause is like a subscription box you never signed up for. Every month, a surprise. Will it be sleep? Anxiety? Random rage? A philosophical crisis at midnight?

Stay tuned.

So yes, tomorrow I’ll go back to the drawing board. Adjust the dose. Negotiate with my hormones like a tired diplomat.

And maybe lock my bedroom door so the dog can whine someplace else, revenge on the teenagers living under the same roof. Consider it character building.