Wow, times have really changed. I remember when my mom went through “the change”, she was CRAZY. Certifiable. Us kids still at home probably should have been placed into some sort of protective custody, but those were different times. She had intermittent crazy eyes, and a flair for the dramatic, and when she was really feeling it, she would burst into a rousingly mournful rendition of the country tune “Unwanted, Unneeded, Unloved”. Good times. Hmmm, now that I see that written down, there may have been some underlying self-esteem issues going on, but I can’t say for sure – I’m not a doctor. Or Oprah.
Now that Barbie and I are both 50+, I may have had a couple of menopausal symptoms so far, but all in all I think things are going pretty well. At work, I’ve pretty much mastered the art of staying focused during meetings, even though I am sometimes dangerously close to bursting into flames. At home, in spite of the wintry weather, we keep our house heated to a blistering 62 degrees (as further proof of my age, I still speak Farenheit. Still not convinced this whole “metric system” thing is going to catch on). At least at home I can dress the way that I want (HA- and everyone said I was crazy for keeping those tube tops I got in the summer of ’77). At work I dress business casual, which usually means dress slacks and turkeynecks. Oh – sorry – turtlenecks. Just an unfortunately accurate Freudian slip.
There might have been a couple instances of lapses of memory. I begrudgingly had to confess to one recently, when hubby asked why I was feeling my toothbrush and I had to admit that it was to see if I had brushed my teeth yet. He said, “You used to have to do that to check up on the kids”, which naturally made me run dramatically upstairs weeping loudly.
Couple other subtle signs. I got to the store and read my grocery list and it said: Milk, Eggs, Mayo, Bread, Peanut butter , Mayo, Coffee, Paper Towels, Mayo.
Plus it’s getting expensive – I suffer from chronic lack of counter space, so was using the George Foreman grill on the top of the stove to cook some asparagus, and even though the grill was on, “HIGH”, just for good measure I apparently also cranked the burner underneath to “HIGH” . What made things worse, as it was snapping and cracking and smelling, I was casually thumbing through a magazine and said “That thing stinks – there’s something wrong with it.” Hubby leapt into his stop, drop, and roll routine, taking it out to the lawn, as I chased him to salvage the asparagus. That stuff costs like $3.99 a pound. Yeah, that’s right – a pound.
I’m not yet singing along to sad Country tunes (mostly because I can’t remember the words) , and I don’t have crazy eyes, and I don’t terrify the children – although rumour has it that their plans to come home for the summer are now “up in the air.” Come to think of it, I have also noticed that the cats are now a little tentative around me. Like for example, they meow at the door to come in, but if I’m the one that opens it they crane their necks to see past me to see if anyone else is home before making their final decision, and, inexplicably, when I’m alone, they sometimes opt to just stay standing out in the rain…. Unwanted ….
Plus I’ve been going out of my way to be considerate, and caring and maternal, and my busy offspring don’t even have the time to acknowledge the motherly comments I make on their photos they post on Facebook, like “Did you really wear that?” and “Looks like your skin flared up again – maybe should layoff the pizza.” If caring is a crime then I’m guilty as charged……Unneeded…..
AND yes I guess when provoked I may have a bit of a shorter fuse, but that Revenue Canada guy on what they laughingly call the “help” desk I spoke to today can’t prove that I said “effing” – I’m doubtful that they even record those calls. ALL I was trying to do was file my daughter’s tax return, as she is quite anxious to get her refund to finance her extended travels so she doesn’t have to come home one minute earlier than necessary.…..Unloved….
But one of the scariest signs of mental instability combined with advancing aging occurred on the weekend when preparing our Easter dinner when I, for no apparent reason, felt the inexplicable urge to make … a jello moulded salad. I think it may be some sort of complex psychological combination of longing for the simpler days and Easter dinners of my youth, combined with a self-preservation instinct, preparing myself for the institutional food at the third rate budget senior’s facility of my children’s choosing, that I expect to soon call home.
Oh well. At least I will have my memories. Or not.