I wish I knew who I was going to be when I wake up each morning. Some days I wake up feeling fairly “normal,” and I think to myself “This is it. Menopause has passed. I am me again.” Then I wake up the next day with metaphorical horns and an evil glint that finds sarcasm too kind.
On those days I am Dr. Heckle, and I find myself harassing my husband for no good reason, other than I can’t seem to complain enough. I find myself uttering sarcastic phrases like:
- Seriously. Can you chew your food a little louder? I can still hear my television show.
- Why is it so freakin’ hot in here? Oh yeah, menopause joke. Thanks, honey. Take it on the road while you’re turning down the heat.
- Why are you slowing the car down? The light isn’t even yellow. Don’t do that old person thing of slowing down at every light just in case it turns red. Geez.
- You want to know if I want dinner? Are you just TRYING to make me fatter? Is this some kind of subversive plot to undermine my self-esteem?
My husband has asked how to handle those days, and I tell him to run. Run like the wind. Stay as far away from me as possible, because that’s what I would do if I could.
On other days I can barely pull myself out of the bed, sure that my tail is going to fall off like Eeyore. Those are the days I turn into Mrs. Hide. On these days I won’t attack you, but I will depress you, lamenting things such as:
- Why do I drop everything? Whatever I pick up hits the floor and breaks. Gawd. I’m going to have to move into a padded house.
- Why is my body falling off my bones? I lie down at night and my stomach becomes a second entity. I bend over and feel my face falling off. Geez.
- Why is somebody coming over? I don’t want anybody to come over. I want to sit here and watch the “Ghost Hunters” marathon all night while eating Cheddar Jack Cheese Nips. Arrgh.
Menopause has turned me into Sybil. I never know exactly who I am going to be until I wake up. I told my husband he should just move out for a couple of years. I think he looked for a place, but the economy made a second residence too expensive.
Therefore, I now wear signs that declare which “Dame” I am for the day. That way he knows he should either, a) run away, b) grab the Prozac or c) gather memories – it’s a good, normal day.
Anybody else out there with me? Or am I the only crazy one?
