A Benadryl wormhole to the past

What ever happened to that 20-something girl? Will she be back?

What’s the gift that keeps on giving when you’re a gal in your late forties? It’s perimenopause, my friends.

Lately, I’ve been having trouble falling asleep at night and/or back to sleep when I wake up to pee at 3 am (which I always do). I hear this can be a thing when the hormones are a-changin’. What’s so annoying about it is that I feel tired. My body just refuses to shift into sleep mode. (And yes, I turn my screens off well before I go to bed, and yes, I avoid caffeine in the afternoon blah blah blah.)

So far, I’ve resisted herbal or pharmaceutical remedies. But one time a couple of weeks ago, I was just so freaking exhausted, and pissed off about the fact that this somehow wasn’t translating into FALLING ASLEEP, that I went to the medicine cabinet thinking I’d pop a Benadryl. Just this once. I was pretty sure we had some.

And indeed we did. In fact, we’ve it for a really long time. Like, a really

really

really

reaalllllllly long time.

Yes. That is correct. The Benadryl in our medicine cabinet expired in 2007. Given that over-the-counter medications generally have an expiration date a few years out, this means that there’s a good chance I bought this Benadryl in 2003ish.

After I downed one (I figured it might be less potent, but it wasn’t going to kill me), and I lay in bed waiting to fall asleep, and I had the strangest feeling—like that box of old Benadryl capsules was some kind of crazy wormhole to the past.

My first thought, weirdly, was: When I bought this, Gilmore Girls was still on the air. (I didn’t watch it when it was originally on, but my daughter and I have been watching it over the past year or so, so it’s top of mind.)

And then I started thinking about all the other things that were true when I presumably walked into some pharmacy or grocery store somewhere and picked this box of Benadryl up off the shelf:

I was 29, two-years married, childless. We lived in Iowa City, where I was getting my MFA. George W. Bush was president, but I was hoping that Howard Dean (or anyone, really) would unseat him. There were no smartphones, and the only social media was Friendster (hahahahah!!) and MySpace. Netflix was this new thing where you could set up a queue of movies you wanted, and they’d mail you two DVDs in red envelopes, and you’d return them after you’d watched them, and then you’d get the next two titles on your list. (Admit it: You’d totally forgotten about this until I just reminded you, didn’t you.)

Here’s young adult me in Iowa, with hair dyed auburn, blurrily and probably a litle drunkenly reminding you about Netflix.

I’m pretty sure I even know why I bought this Benadryl: I had an allergic reaction to an antibiotic, and it was bad enough that we went to the emergency room. The nurse there looked at the hives breaking out all over my body and told me, sounding peeved, that I should have just taken a Benadryl. And when I told her we didn’t have any, she scolded that we really should keep some on hand.

Well, grumpy University of Iowa Hospital nurse, I TOOK YOUR ADVICE! Bwah ha ha. I’ve kept it on hand for nearly twenty years, making sure to pack it up and bring it with me to, count ‘em, three new addresses.

At this point you may be wondering: Why am I so intrigued (for lack of a better word) by this very old Benadryl? It’s not as if I don’t have other things that I’ve possessed since 2003. I guess it’s because, with the possible exception of a jar of coriander in the spice drawer, none of them are perishables—or at least things meant to be consumed within a reasonable amount of time. That Benadryl should be long gone. As gone as 29 year-old-me.

Contemplating the existence of my expired Benadryl, I am blown away by just how much I’ve done and changed between when I bought it and now.

I’ve raised two humans from in-utero to 16, and gone through the ordeal of one of them having cancer at age 5; I went from being a grad student to being employed by an advertising agency to being employed by myself; I overcame major depression after getting the right diagnosis and treatment; I’ve published (almost!) three books. I’ve gained belly fat (and named it Sheila*), crow’s feet, and gray hairs, but also new passions (indoor rock climbing, hiking all of New Hampshire’s 48 4K peaks) that have put me in the best shape of my life. I definitively stood up to my father’s abusive behaviors for the first time in my life, at 45, and a year later I helped him die.

I actually like current me much better than 29-year-old me. (Resisting the urge to evoke “in spite of Sheila” again here, because I don’t want to hurt my best mate’s feelings). I’m stronger, more secure, kinder, and way more woke (yeah, that’s right; fight me, Florida.) And God knows I’m a better writer.

But I do miss the wide-eyed, hungry sense of endless possibility I had in my twenties. I miss being a little reckless. I miss having the drive and energy—not to mention the time—to do things like read big fat classic books, and study languages. And I sure as hell miss my skin.

As I approach fifty, and I see the kids’ departure for college looming horribly on the horizon, I can’t help wondering—especially while contemplating packets of ancient Benadryl—will being an empty nester (holy fuck, that sounds old) feel a little like a reunion with my younger self? Will there be forgotten parts of me that will rise back up to the surface?

Already, I can feel some things stirring. Like, I’m very much on the verge of getting a third piercing in my left ear. (Yes, I realize this is a TOTAL middle aged cliché. No tattoos though, I swear.) I recently bought The Brothers Karamazov, and I think I might actually read it. I’m also starting to feel a wanderlust I haven’t felt in a while—and the freedom to act on it. Escaping to the mountains on the regular is one manifestation of that, but I’m also feeling giddy even about the fact that I’m going to the midwest on my book tour in April. And I am practically salivating at the fact that the mister and I are about to go to Barcelona for five days, ALONE, while the kids are on a school trip.

It’s crazy, isn’t it? How we can change so much over the course of our lives, even as we remain the same person? I wouldn’t go back if I could. But there are aspects of myself, and that old life, that I love the thought of reconnecting with in the years ahead.

I suspect that next week, as Alastair and I are wandering the streets of Barcelona, eating tapas, lingering over wine, and strolling through museums, 29-year-old me will very much be along for the ride—and I’m excited about that. Maybe I’ll pop an expired Benadryl on the plane to seal the deal.

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*My husband recently reminded me that Wanda Sykes, in her comedy routines, talks about calling her belly Esther—and that, subconsciously, I may have gotten the idea for naming my belly from her. So, just giving full credit where it’s due. Sorry, Wanda! Perhaps Esther and Sheila can grab a drink sometime.