#$%&@#!! Menopause.

TIme for a beverage.

Time for a beverage.

It’s nine AM on Sunday morning. In twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be wasting my time and talent at my dead-end job hating life wishing the weekend was here again. It’s in my best interest, for my health and sanity, for Sunday to be a good day. I have trained myself to consciously keep this in mind as I tiptoe through the minefield of reality in my domestic existence, usually biting my tongue until it bleeds.

My experience in life has shown me there is a light at the end of the tunnel with regard to women and hormonal imbalances. By the time a woman reaches about 29, mortality sets in. She sees 30 quickly approaching on her horizon and decides to forego all the games and silliness of her relationship pandering days. And she will be wonderfully adjusted, light-hearted, thankful, forgiving, and agreeable for the next fifteen years.

Then something horrific happens. At about 45, things begin to change. It’s not quite a reversion to her pre-thirties behavior, but this change often does have its similarities. A period of utter confusion overcomes many women as their hormones invoke the shutdown of her reproductive facilities. Chemical imbalances run rampant. Body temperatures as well as temperaments spike and fall almost randomly. One little bump in the road becomes an inescapable sinkhole. I can’t fathom how it feels for her personally, but as I attempt to empathize, I curse whomever or whatever created this diversion loudly and without abandon as it ruins my Sundays.

My parents both died young. I hope that I have somewhere between 500-700 Sundays left before I end up in a cardboard box to be returned to the dirt from which I came. My Sundays are more important with each one that passes. I’m not sure how long this journey through “the change” will last, though I have heard horrible stories from others who have voyaged down this treacherous river. Fortunately, most survived and have docked at a second even more stable plateau somewhere in the 50s.

The only advice I can offer is to be there. There is nothing you can say to affect anything. Sit there, quietly, and offer whatever affectionate gestures you can. Don’t be discouraged if you are put off. She doesn’t mean it. She can’t help it. It’s like an alien worm has bored into her cerebrum and stolen her personality from within. I can attest that she is still in there. And hopefully she will come back, better than ever.

In the meantime, I suppose I will have to temporarily suspend my Sunday philosophy. It’s now 1 PM, and things have settled down. The power of a well-timed hug is inexplicable. Don’t give up. I wish you the best of luck.

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