Menopausal women are scary. No doubt about it. Just look at the abject fear on the faces around you when you start the descent on the emotional roller coaster ride.
Case in point. I’m cleaning up the kitchen after a quiet, lovely dinner. The pint of salad dressing that my husband has just made is sitting on the counter. When I try to put the lid on it, it jumps up into the air and spills. All over me, all over the floor, all over the rug in front of the sink and halfway up the wall.
I don’t know whether to curse, cry, or curl up into the fetal position. Or all three. My husband comes in, drawn by the clatter. He takes one look at me and says hurriedly, "Just wipe yourself off; I’ll clean this up." He circles me warily like a geologist trying to ascertain if a volcano is on the verge of eruption.
"I need a bath," I mutter and toddle off to bubbles and hot, rose scented water. I hear classical music as I drift off, Calgon taking me away. (My husband subscribes to the theory that music soothes the savage beast. Hey, it works.) 20 minutes later he calls in to me, "It’s all cleaned up. Are you okay now?"
Oh yeah, I am okay. More than okay. Because thankfully, I don’t have to do this alone. My partner is in the seat next to me on that roller coaster, lifting his arms high in the air and yelling, "Woo hoo, what a ride!"