I

The Pause That Depresses

 

By: Germaine R. Longpré

 

     Menopause. Ugh!

     

     The only word, other than Viagra, that can make a few million, tits-down-to-the-knees Baby Boomer women, shudder uncontrollably. The mere mention of this hormones-out-of-whack affliction can potentially make any husband, if they haven't already left the building (or city), find religion or, at the very least, down several dams of the finest scotch to calm the nerves.

 

     Although sympathy should be showered upon these poor, bloated, hips-can't-get-through-the-doorway women, it's the unsuspecting male counterpart who must bear the brunt.

   

     All husbandly suggestions, be they simple, compassionate invitations to "Let's go to the movies" or "Let's eat out tonight" may, under the right6 (or any) conditions, be shot down with venomous retorts.

 

     "Why? You lose your remote?" or "My meal's not good enough?". It should be noted that these last words are usually followed by the flow of tears as she runs out of the room and stomps upstairs to the bedroom where the door is slammed shut and locked.

 

     Of  course the only thing to do, if you don't want to find your personal belongings thrown out of a window onto the street, or see your expensive Giovanni suit cut-up into strips, is to sheepishly follow and plead for entry. If early enough in the day, the chances are the door will swing open (after 28 minutes of driveling), giving you the opportunity to soothingly caress her and compliment her, while admitting you were a callous dweeb.

 

     This seems to work – sometimes!

 

     To accurately describe menopausal women's malaise in technical terms is far too complex to attempt, and to express this women-are-always-right ailment in lay terms is near impossible, though Armageddon comes p-r-e-t-t-y close.

 

     These ladies, and I use the term only because I like my body parts the way they are, also seem very quick to point out a baffling phenomena that befalls all men following the first signs of "The Change". Apparently, men suffer from brain-cell degeneration at this time....

 

     "What's wrong, Honey?" You croon sappily.

     "You wouldn't understand!" She whimpers while wiping away tears and sniffling into a crumpled Kleenex.

     "Try me."You plead softly while rubbing her back.

     "I don't know who I am anymore!"

     "Well, that's easy! You're my wife!"

 

     Oh, oh! Too late!

 

     The tears are instantly transformed into pitiful wails and an unforeseen swift, hard jab in the ribs before dashing angrily out of the room, painfully confirms your need for alternate sleeping arrangements – the couch, again!

 

     Another, most confusing side effect transpiring during this difficult time is her constant need to change the decor. The living room's eggshell-white walls, painted less than three months before, are now deep fuchsia, complimented by a sponge-textured, lime-green overcoat accentuating the homemade, navy-blue plush curtains. Of course, an array of new-age furniture was required to "blend it all in"!

Counting how many times visitors used the word "interesting" certainly helped pass the long, boring social evenings; and you pray the wife doesn't mention or invite the guests to view the new, bizarre, jungle-like bedroom! You wonder what they'll say about the authentic sound effects and the six-foot stuffed gorilla standing guard beside the bed amidst fake palm trees.

 

     Over time, one becomes accustomed to the never-know-what's-going-to-happen-next mood swings; in fact, if you've been paying close attention, one can actually predict such sessions coming on. It is strongly advisable to become particularly en amoured at this time-just don't buy her flowers!

 

     "I knew it! You're having an affair, right?" The little woman, surprising you with a never-before-seen Attila the Hun-like trait, will answer, baring teeth, as she angrily crushes the expensive, long-stem roses, thorns and all, with her bare hands and then unceremoniously throws them into your face before darting tearfully upstairs –again.

 

     Although these fits are difficult to understand and more so to defuse, you will be please to know that running up twenty-two steps at least 10 times a day, will tend to make you lose excess weight and strengthen your leg muscles if you should ever be instructed to "take a hike"!

 

     Being helpful around the house is always a good thing. A word of caution; be prepare to be berated with "not-up-to-my-standards" statements as she re-does everything you've done. Nearing the brink of losing it, you retire to your workshop haven only to find that it has been rearranged to accommodate the space-invading new kiln, potter's wheel, quilting loom, treadmill and a large storage unit filled with cases of clay, cans of glazes, reams of material and mounds of that white fluff stuff!

 

     "That's it!" You yelp.

 

     Years of rage, equal in proportion to Mt. Saint-Helen's core pressure, finally erupt! A fist finds its mark through a wall; then you realize it wasn't really worth it because "it's your job" to fix the damage – then creatively invent a plausible (lame) excuse for the bleeding knuckles as well.

 

     Another little tidbit of information, which may become useful during winter, is to get used to wearing pajamas. It seems her "hot flashes" are more pronounced when the mercury falls below the minus 20-Celsius mark. With all windows fully open, while the city faces the worst cold-snap of the decade, it may give you false rises which, I guarantee, will be wrongly interpreted.

 

     "Is that ALL you men ever think about?" she huffs, as she turns to face the gorilla.

 

     Take heart gentlemen, I spent this past summer with a psychoanalyst and he assures me that, medically speaking, it should only last between 5 to 10 years or, depending on global economic stability, national political harmony and the current Wal-Mart flyer, whenever SHE decides its over.