Menopausal Mother

    The best thing about the human race is our individuality. The world would be a dull place indeed if we all dressed the same, talked the same, and shared identical opinions on everything from ice cream flavors to presidential candidates. Our uniqueness is what makes us interesting.

     While I respect individuality, there are also certain types of people who annoy the hell out of me. Their "uniqueness" doesn't jive with my own personality flaws (which include impatience, irritability, and a short attention span), and they bring out the worst in me. They make me feel stabby, which is never good for someone who is going through menopause.

     If you fit into one of these categories, stay far, far away from me. Or better yet, hide your forks.


THE MOTORMOUTH: This is the person who never knows when to stop talking. There's a tiny motor attached to their mouth and it's set on warp speed. Their incessant chatter triggers an instant headache while I'm trying to process the minute details of a story they're eager to share. I'm not interested in hearing "101 fun facts" about your new turbo vacuum. Nor do I need to know the name of every dairy cow that contributed to the chunks of imported cheese behind the deli counter.

INDECISIVE PEOPLE: I refer to these people as "wafflers." They can't make up their mind about ANYTHING. Ever go out to dinner with these people? If the restaurant has an extensive menu, you might as well bring a sleeping bag because you'll be camping under the table for days.

A waffler will agonize for hours over the abundance of food choices. Fried calamari or beef sliders?  It's impossible for these people to make it through a four-course meal because the restaurant's kitchen closes at midnight. For the love of all that is holy, pick the damn calamari and call it a night.

BRAGGARTS: Whenever you share a personal victory, these people like to pipe in about something BETTER that happened to them. They could care less about your trip to Wally World last summer because they were busy partying it up in Monaco. And even though you're proud of the 5K race you ran last weekend, the Braggart is quick to remind you that they ran a 10K race in 102 degrees… uphill. Both ways.

NEGATIVE PEOPLE: No matter how much positivity you try to send out into the universe, negative people will find something wrong with the very things that make you the happiest.

"I just got a promotion at work!"
"Say goodbye to your social life because you'll probably have to work nights and weekends from now on."

"I just bought a new car!"
"I heard there was a recall on that model."

Carry an umbrella when you're around these people, because they will always delight in raining on your parade.

THE CHRONIC COMPLAINER: This person is impossible to please. Nothing is good enough, and fault can be found in just about everything. Their boss is a jerk, their spouse is a slob, their kids are unappreciative, their rent is too high and they have mysterious illnesses that keep them from enjoying pretty much everything in life. Whatever you do, NEVER ask a chronic complainer how their day is going. An ear full of wax is preferable to an earful of misery, which is what these people will give you.

KNOW-IT-ALLS:  My biggest pet peeve is with people who think they know EVERYTHING. Heck, they don't even mind telling me how to run my life. If I ask for your advice, great. Give it to me, and chances are I might actually follow it. But when someone steps into my personal territory and tells me how to do something that I feel I have already accomplished on my own, the claws come out. Unless you've discovered a more efficient way to plunge a toilet without splash-back from a fecal bomb, then please keep your opinions to yourself until I ask for your advice.      

UNRELIABLE PEOPLE: Don't promise me that you're going to do something…..and then bail on me. Don't change plans at the last minute, either---this messes with my OCD. If we have plans to go to dinner at 6:30 and you don't show up until 7:15, I might have to start the party without you. Which means I might be a hot mess by the time you arrive.


OVER-THE-TOP INDEPENDENT SALES ENTHUSIASTS: I get that you have a job to do, but please stop pressuring me to buy your nail sticker designs, powdered shakes, knock-off designer bags, miracle skincare products, prepackaged diet food or emoticon-shaped jewelry. If I win the lottery and can afford all of these products, I'll let you know. Otherwise, back off…..unless you're selling baked goods. I'm always ready to shell out money for a good cupcake.

     What type of people annoy you? Oh wait, let me guess…..people who make lists of the people who annoy them the most.

   
 It starts with a glance in the mirror or a family picture that has been plastered all over Facebook. Yeah, that one of you stuffing half of a red velvet cupcake into your mouth.  Even your long lost relatives who are sheep herders on another continent are sharing and commenting on that picture: "Awww...look how much she's GROWN over the years..." This is fine if they're talking about a five year old, NOT a middle aged mother.
     My wake-up call hit like a clap of thunder thighs the day I uploaded some pictures taken from our local renaissance festival.  Who was that chubster in the blue gown next to Mr. Robin Hood-Wanna-Be? Oh yeah, that's me...wait, WHAT? Okay, I'll admit I've been a little heavy-handed with the desserts lately. And the frappuccinos. Those pesky, two-for-one sales at Wine-Mart haven't been doing me any favors, either. But what am I supposed to do when there's an industrial size jar of Nutella in my pantry, just calling my name? You could spread that stuff on styrofoam and it would still taste good.
     Upon closer inspection of my physical flaws in that traitor I call a mirror, I knew I had to get myself back into the svelte clothes growing cobwebs in the back of my closet. I joined an all-female gym, but quickly realized that my workout clothes from the Richard Simmons era were sadly outdated. I needed a new gym wardrobe, but me visiting a sporting goods store for clothes to sweat in is a perfect example of an oxymoron.

     I made the mistake of inviting The Hubs along to help me choose my new gear. He was a little TOO  enthusiastic at the prospect of his wife getting back into shape. I roamed the aisles until I found the women's workout clothes section and stopped dead in my tracks. Who were these manufacturers kidding? The "large" tops were the size of small sausage casings. I'd be lucky if I could stretch the shirt to fit one arm. Further down the aisle I came across a row of "grande" tank tops. In white. I envisioned a fat polar bear wearing a pink headband and hopping around the gym floor during Zumba class. I shuddered.


     And then the unthinkable happened....every chubster's worst nightmare. My brilliant Hubs was  across the store in the men's department. He held up an armload of colorful tee shirts and shouted, "Hey Hon, you need a larger size? I found a 2X in the men's department that might fit you!"  I should have slapped a muzzle on the man during public outings years ago.
     I quickly grabbed a few pairs of yoga pants and some tee shirts with motivational sayings on them such as, "Just Do It" and, "I like to lick cake batter off beaters" (No wait---that was for something else!).
     Not willing to suffer alone, I convinced one of my daughters to join the gym with me because misery loves company (and paybacks are hell). We spent our first few, torturous days with a personal trainer to learn how to use the weight equipment. But mostly we learned how not to grunt too loudly like truffle sniffing oinkers or sweating too much like two sumo wrestlers in a sauna.
     The day of our first Zumba class, I surveyed the group and was pleased to see a nice mix of ages and body types. Women's shapes are often compared to certain fruits---apples, pears, oranges...and the occasional grapefruit. I was in the midst of a fruit salad ready to learn some sexy Zumba moves. Music with a heavy, Latin beat reverberated against the walls and we began hopping around the wood floor like Mexican Jumping beans. I tried to concentrate on the dance steps but my mind kept wandering....a typical defense mechanism against the extreme pain I was in from my workout with the trainer. My thighs were so sore that I'd been forced to walk around with a full bladder all day just to avoid squatting over a toilet seat. Rather than listening to the Zumba instructor, my mind was swept along with the cluttered debris of A.D.D. ----random thoughts scurrying through my brain like rapid channel surfing through 450 television programs:

     "Drop it drop it low girl....drop it like it's hot....oh yeah, I got this booty shakin' thing down....wait. Why isn't my butt moving like everyone else's? And what's that popping sound in my lower back? At least I'm rockin' these new, neon green Nikes....actually, they kinda look like twin sand barges in the ocean. Uh-oh.....should have worn some Spanx. My junk is jiggling in all the wrong places. I swear I can still see those damn cupcakes sitting on my hips, mocking me. Crap, it's hot in here. Hot flash hell. Hard to breath. Heart, don't play me like that. I'm not dropping dead in Zumba class! It would scar my daughter for life. Hey, where did she learn to shake her ass like that, anyway? Probably snuck out of her bedroom window to hit the dance clubs all those nights I thought she was snug in bed. Umm...am I in Pole dancing 101 right now? And who's bright idea was it to place mirrors around this brightly lit room? I'm so pale I look like I've been cohabiting with family of moles.
OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD! Is that what I think it is----camel toe? I need new pants!! Hey, what's the food channel doing on the gym TV? They should be showing infomercials for weight loss supplements or....ohh, Paula Dean is making smothered pork chops with gravy....do I have any pork chops in the freezer? Wait---what fresh hell is this---more squats? Yoo-hoo teacher, I'm dying over here. I'm not gonna Busta Rhymes---- I'm gonna busta femur. Oh great...now I'm sweating so much my makeup is running down my face
. I look like I belong at a KISS concert. Whoa! Paula Dean is baking a chocolate marble cake! Are you kidding me? She needs to get over here and do this freakin' Zumba class!  Huh? Cool down time already? You mean we're done? I made it! I didn't die on the Zumba floor!"


     Its been a few months now and Meno Mama is getting closer to brushing the cobwebs off her skinny clothes. I'm droppin' it like it's hot in Zumba class without feeling a heart attack coming on. The only thing I need now is new tee shirts from the sausage casing aisle....or maybe just some cupcake batter.....