I don’t mind telling you that today hasn’t been a great day.
In spite of the fact that the morning weather was a damp and misty 12°C, I woke up in full hot flash mode (for those of you who may have missed it, here’s A Busy Old Time, which details Mother Nature’s attempt to drive me completely round the bend with the perimenopause). Throwing off the covers, I ran to the bathroom to swill my face with cold water. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I gasped. It was not me who gazed back at me, but some sleep deprived 40-year-old whose face was a shade of red that a freshly boiled lobster would envy. I swilled my face, more in the hope that I might wash away Little Miss Lobster Face than to actually cool down, and then jumped in the shower. Just as I was basking in the feel of the cool water running down my body, my husband popped his head around the shower curtain and asked if he should make the coffee. This was really nice and thoughtful of him, and I was about to award him a whole host of Brownie points, when he followed up with, “What are you blushing for? It’s only me!” The look on my face must have made him realise what he’d said and he made a hasty exit to go and make the coffee.
Suitably refreshed, I managed to have breakfast without incident and then set off to run some errands and do a spot of shopping. And then the mood swings decided to make an appearance. They first made themselves known in the supermarket, and initially took the form of road rage. Road rage in a supermarket! I know, right! Yet how else would you describe it when, upon seeing a guy straddling the middle of the aisle with his shopping cart while with furrowed brow he eyes the row of tinned peas and beans as if they were some complex mathematical puzzle, you hear your voice say “Pick a lane, dickhead!” as you push his shopping cart out of the way with your own.
Road rage was quickly followed by an anxiety attack which saw me shaking and sweating as I put my items on checkout conveyor belt. As I headed for the door, I was convinced that security were going to come after me, if not for the incident with the bewildered man in the peas and beans aisle, then because I must surely have looked as if I was trying to hide something. Making it to the car, I threw my items into the boot and then sat in the car for what seemed like an age, just sobbing and feeling that if it was possible to merge a hot mess and a complete failure, you would come up with me at that exact moment.
A little while later, I had a stern word with myself and told myself to calm down and pull myself together. I fished around in the glove box and found a tissue, blew my nose and looked in the mirror. It was then that I realised that my husband had previously used the tissue to wipe his oily hands, and I now had a black oily smear across my nose. A wave of anger washed over me, followed almost immediately by an uncontrollable fit of giggles at the thought that it was fortunate I hadn’t wiped my eyes with the tissue, as I would have ended up looking like Chi Chi the Giant Panda!
Back at home, I found a note left by my husband, asking me to call a zinc plating firm and to find out some info on the procedure and how much it would cost for him to have some of his motorbike parts plated (he restores classic motorbikes and he had a load of nuts and bolts ready to be plated). I duly called the company and found myself speaking to the most unhelpful man I have ever had the misfortune to speak to. Not only did he give me three different prices in the space of two sentences, but he also told me that he – and I quote – “couldn’t guarantee that the parts would come out right” and that he “couldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t lose anything”. When I responded with “So you can’t guarantee that anyone at your company is professional and knows what they’re doing?” he hung up on me.
I am now venting my spleen to you, my dear readers, whilst simultaneously drinking a calming cup of chamomile tea. As I do so, a thought has just occurred to me. Today has been full of run-ins with men – my husband this morning, the poor guy in the supermarket and the idiot on the phone. Combine this with menopause, mental stress and indeed, menstruation, and I can’t help but wonder whether it’s just a coincidence that a great many of women’s problems start with “men”?
I think I need more chamomile tea!