The internet told me direct sunlight on my perineum would rebalance my hormones.
I am going to pause here so you can sit with that sentence.
Yes. I'm aware. The internet told me this. A specific subset of the internet, which I will call "women on Instagram who have gone to Costa Rica at least twice." They were not kidding. They had infographics. They had testimonials. They had a method — "ten minutes in the morning, uncovered, pointed toward the rising sun" — and they had a reason. Apparently the skin of the perineum is very thin and therefore absorbs sunlight with particular efficiency, which somehow becomes hormone regulation, and from there it was anybody's guess.
I'm 52. I'm menopause-adjacent. I am not above trying things. Let me be clear about my starting position: I have also tried collagen powder, red light therapy, mouth tape, the gut reset where you eat only beef, and one six-week period where I was consuming twelve-year-old raw honey from a specific farm in Provence because a yoga teacher told me it was "medicinal." Nothing has ever worked. But the bar for what I am willing to try has, as a result, gotten comfortably low.
So. A Saturday in April. Seven-fifteen in the morning. My back porch faces east. The neighbors to my left have a dog that they walk at approximately seven-forty. I figured I had a window.
I got into a robe and walked out. It was not warm. Colorado in April is a negotiation. I sat down on a folded towel on the lounger. I did a small, private logistical review. I thought: well, if I am going to do this, I am going to do it correctly. I am not going to half-ass the butthole sunning.
I reclined.
I will not describe the rest of the morning in detail, because I do not owe you that, and also because my lawyer said. I will tell you the following, which I consider matters of public record.
One: it is much colder, on the perineum, than I had anticipated.
Two: at approximately seven-thirty-two a.m., which is eight minutes earlier than expected, the neighbor walked her dog. The dog saw me first. The dog was curious. The neighbor was, I think, respectfully not looking directly at my porch, but she was also not not looking, and she and I have not yet made eye contact in the elevator of the shared parking garage we both use. I believe this is a situation we are each going to continue pretending didn't happen.
Three: the hormones are unchanged.
Four: at no point did I experience any enlightenment, any rebalancing, any noticeable shift in energy. I got up. I went inside. I made coffee. I decided I would like to never speak of this again, and I immediately opened a tab to start writing this essay.
Here is what I learned. Not about hormones, because the hormones remain a matter between me and my endocrinologist, who already thinks I read too much Instagram. What I learned is this:
The wellness industrial complex is relying on the fact that women my age are, at this very moment, willing to try anything. We are told for twenty years that our bodies are the problem. Then we are told, at forty, that actually our hormones are the problem. Then we are told, at fifty, that actually our inflammation is the problem. Then we are offered a solution that involves sunlight, our buttholes, and a seven-minute window.
What I actually needed, it turned out, was sleep. Hydration. Weights. A therapist I liked. The hot tub. An occasional break from the internet.
If you are considering butthole sunning: the answer is no. The neighbor saw you. Stay inside.