DON’T MESS WITH ME I’M MENOPAUSAL!
Shona Sibary, 51, has a fight on her hands as hormones mess with her emotions
In my previous world – the one before menopause, where I still had oestrogen and slept at night and didn’t have to change my entire wardrobe to cope with the embarrassment of hot flushes every five minutes – it would have seemed totally inconceivable to lose the plot over a prawn sandwich.
But, clearly, we’re not in Kansas any more, Toto, because the rage I recently felt when a pub tried to charge me £12.50 for what turned out to be two thin slices of Mother’s Pride and so few crustacea in number they could have been the last MPS that supported Boris Johnson was, admittedly, a bit of an overreaction. Needless to say, we probably won’t be welcome back there any time soon.
LOSING THE PLOT
And it’s not just pubs ripping me off that makes me want to kick off like an overtired toddler on a sugar comedown. Everything and anything can cause the red mist to descend.
One of the kids took my phone charger the other morning and they all denied having it. In the past, I would have calmly checked bedrooms, threatened punishment and felt mild irritation at the selfishness of my offspring, Flo, 23, Annie, 21, Monty, 19, and Dolly, 12… But not now. I yelled, I jumped up and down, I flung stuff, and then I cried in a snotty heap at the bottom of the stairs.
My husband, Keith, 54, and the teens watched in utter horror and the look on their faces said it all: ‘Yep, she’s finally gone mad.’
And it a form of madness, this menopause. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that centuries ago women died shortly after going through this humiliation in their lives. Now we have to struggle on for decades more with plummeting oestrogen levels and creaking joints. I literally cannot even walk up a flight of stairs any more. I’m 51 but I feel 80. I have rolls of ‘hormonal’ fat around my middle and feel about as desirable as a flat tyre.
If I never had sex again, it wouldn’t bother me. In fact, it would be a massive relief.
ZERO TOLERANCE
Perhaps this is why I just feel so cross all the time. Forget patches, gel and pump sprays for oestrogen. I need tolerance-replacement therapy. My hormones may have gone off a cliff and, don’t get me wrong, they are sorely missed. But the thing I’m struggling most with right now is how angry everything is making me.
How is it that I have pushed four human beings into the world and this is all the thanks I get for it? That makes me mad. The way Keith will load the dishwasher after an evening meal but never actually turn it on. Rage. The recorded voice at self-service checkouts that repeatedly
‘EVERYTHING CAN CAUSE THE RED MIST TO DESCEND’
says, ‘Unexpected item in bagging area.’ No, I am not trying to nick an avocado. Oh, for God’s sake, it would have been quicker to have queued at the tills!
Clearly, some drastic action is required. Yoga, perhaps, or lessons in deep breathing and meditation. But stuff like this irritates me, too. I can’t stand the background music and incense makes me sneeze. My husband suggested I tattoo a sign on my head that says, ‘Don’t mess with me, I’m menopausal.’ Is that grounds for divorce? I think it might be!