Aging is a privilege, sure, but why do our so-called golden years come bundled with random body aches, temperamental digestion, and surprise chin hairs strong enough to survive a natural disaster?

Here’s the truth: we Gen X women are deep in the trenches of perimenopause, and it comes with a special set of horrors usually only discussed in hushed tones or over a large glass of wine.

My back likes to spasm for no apparent reason, usually in sync with some mystery hip pain that shows up out of nowhere and takes me out like a sniper with excellent aim.

My stomach has become a treacherous little drama queen. When I was younger, I could probably eat tree bark and call it dinner. Now? Every meal has to be carefully negotiated like a hostage situation, or my entire night is shot.

My bladder has the emotional regulation and stamina of an overtired toddler. Any car ride over two hours now requires strategic planning, because there will be a pit stop, and if there isn’t, someone’s leather interior is going to pay the price.

Sleep? That’s adorable. I can’t make it through a full night without waking at some unholy hour to stare at the ceiling and contemplate my life choices. And if I don’t have at least three pillows arranged in a very specific support system, I wake up feeling like my spine has filed a formal complaint.

And then there’s my memory, which at this point feels more like folklore than an actual functioning skill.

I was telling my daughter a story the other day about someone I knew in high school. Not vaguely knew. Knew knew.

My best friend’s boyfriend, in fact.

Could not remember his first name.

Not even a glimmer.

At that point, I was halfway ready to call the doctor and request a full neurological workup.

In my youth, I used to laugh at people in this stage of life.

That laugh has come back around to personally slap me in the face.

Because as far as I can tell, there is nothing funny about the nightly chin-hair patrol, the restless sleep, or the fact that at any given moment I am either hungry, tired, thirsty, have to pee, or all four at once.

Still, maybe this is the trade-off. Maybe the price of wisdom is vanity. Maybe the reward for making it this far is realizing we were never meant to stay polished and untouched forever.

So fine. I’ll embrace my perimenopause era.

But I’m still side-eyeing the chin hairs.

And maybe buying beard oil.

Kim Van Meter is a former full-time reporter for The Oakdale Leader, The Escalon Times and The Riverbank News; she continues to provide a monthly column. She can be reached at kvanmeter@oakdaleleader.com.