If there was any doubt as to my menopausal status, three events occurred today that irrevocably altered my pretense of hormonal balance. I haven’t exhibited the usual mood swings and hot flashes that you hear so much about, spoken of in less than endearing terms, as if having navigated those waters you’ve earned a badge of honor.  You know what I mean, round up the children, the elderly, the innocent bystanders, she’s “in a mood”. That’s how we used to respond to my mother, run for your life, hide under the dining room table, get out of the line of fire.  All was relatively benign in my hormonal universe, until today.  With today’s events came the complete realization that I am totally unable to contain my emotions.

Let me share the day’s first enlightening moment.  Straightening up the house this morning, I opened the door to our walk in closet, and the smell of my partner’s perfume lingered in the air.  That gentle scent made me burst into tears with the knowledge that I am so very blessed to have this relationship.  I cried like a baby for about five minutes.  Go figure.  Not me, the “Schinootz”.  Schinootz is my favorite nickname because I’m skinny but it’s the skinny one’s who are the tough one’s, or so goes that line of reasoning.  I was really filled with gratitude in that moment, all brought on by a nose full of Magic Noire.  I bet having menopausal women bursting into tears at the very scent of their fragrance is not quite what the marketing people had in mind.  “Magic Noire”, night of magic. Well I was having some magic of my own this morning, thank you very much, except my magic was wreaking havoc on my emotional state, all because of that frickin’ perfume.  Once my eyes cleared and my nose stopped running, I tried to pull myself together and thought, “You are really losin’it”, and yet I was very peaceful and joyful after that cry. As the day continued I went about my business as usual.  Errands, laundry, grocery shopping.  I’m making a nice dinner tonight and had to run out to the store with my list.  Strolling leisurely through the fruits and vegetables perusing all of the farm fresh offerings, I was again overwhelmed by the sense of oughtness, how things ought to be.

I love taking care of the home fires so to speak, and the simple act of strolling through the grocery aisles made the tears spill out of me, like your drunken brother in law trying to make it across your living room at the Holiday cocktail party, leaving half of his martini on your carpet as he navigates to and fro. Was it the basil that did me in this time? Was I having an olfactory meltdown?  I’m serving mussels simmered in a garlicky roasted tomato broth with fresh basil.  But what set me off?  I tried to slink over in the corner by the avocados and the less well-known tropical fruits and vegetables, where the housewives don’t know a plantain from jicama.  Trying to collect myself amongst the star fruit, some lady walks by, taps me on the shoulder and says, “Honey, I know how ya feel, we’ve all been there”, and goes on her merry way.  The nerve.  How could she possibly know why I was standing teary eyed in the middle of the obscure fruits.  I think all post-menopausal women should wear a lapel pin inscribed with the words, “been there, done that, here’s a tissue”.  I rounded out my shopping with a walk past the bakery department, the smell of fresh from the brick oven crusty bread wafting through the air.  I never knew that my nose held the key to my heart.  I picked up a loaf of warm, Italian goodness and held it close, be still my heart. The lady behind the bread counter offered me a sample of fresh rosemary focaccia.  Ah bliss!  Carbohydrates in all their various incarnations have always been my downfall. Tonight will be no exception, as that Italian bread will be brushed with good green olive oil and rubbed with a clove of garlic and then grilled gently, before being torn into hunks and submerged in the luscious roasted tomato, garlic broth that the mussels are bathing in. Fuhgeddaboudit.  My shopping complete, having checked everything off my list (I can’t remember anything nowadays, I have lists to remember my lists) I head toward the 10 items or less aisle, jockeying for position with the other women who are all in a hurry.  Believe me when I tell you, Nascar has nothing on these uber mom’s, careening their way around the grocery store track.  They’ll run you down like a dim-witted squirrel looking for a nut in the middle of the road at rush hour.  Fierce these women.  Waiting patiently in the cue, something is glaring at me from the midst of the candy bars, shouting my name.  Its Ghirardelli chocolate caramels that all “crying for no good reason” menopausal women long for. I have never craved a piece of chocolate in my life until that moment in the checkout line.  I have been absent from the sisterhood of chocolate, but no longer.  That brightly foiled square of Ghirardelli made me feel like the Easter Bunny swimming in a pool of chocolate fondue.

That was the defining moment in an emotional and tearful day.  It was then that I realized I have earned my lapel pin.  I gathered my goods and made my way toward the exit, taking my coat off first.  I don’t think the air conditioning was working very well in the store.  Paired down to my cotton tee shirt, I walked to the SUV and headed home to prepare dinner and enjoy a lovely evening at home, admiring my new lapel pin and being thankful for such a blessed life.

Epilogue:  I am happily through the days of crying for no good reason in the middle of the grocery store, and certainly past my unnatural affection for Ghirardelli chocolate. But if I see you crying one day, I’ll pat you on the shoulder, and let you know that I’ve been there, and it’s okay.