Welcome to menopause, the phase of life no one properly warned us about!
It’s like puberty, but instead of blossoming into a vibrant young adult, you’re a confused middle-aged woman standing in the kitchen, wondering why your coffee tastes like a crime scene. Spoiler alert: it’s because you poured sparkling water into it instead of milk. Again.
Meet the MeMo—the Menopause Monster. She lurks inside, waiting to turn you from a rational human being into a sweating, weeping, rage-fueled mystery of a woman. One minute, you’re cheerfully watching a toothpaste commercial, and the next, you’re sobbing because that actor really seemed to care about plaque control. The MeMo is unpredictable, unstoppable, and has absolutely no chill.
Dr. Jekyll & Mrs. Hyde: The Hormonal Horror Story
Menopause has granted me a split personality. During the day, I’m a mostly normal person—perhaps a bit foggy, a little forgetful, but functional. By nightfall, however, I become Mrs. Hyde, the unhinged, irrational, fire-breathing she-beast who might start an argument with a lamp just because it looked at me funny.
My poor partner, Mike (who has somehow survived almost 17 years with me, has learned to tread lightly. The other day, he said, “Good morning” and I responded with “WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!” It’s exhausting. For both of us.
The Mystery of the Missing Brain Cells
Some days, I feel like my brain has been swapped out for a potato. I put my keys in the fridge, my phone in the laundry basket, and—most tragically—once put a fresh roll of toilet paper into the dishwasher. My mind has become an abandoned attic full of cobwebs, broken memories, and the faint whisper of to-do lists I’ll never complete.
Hot Flashes: Satan’s Hug
If you’ve ever wanted to know what it feels like to be a human furnace, menopause has got you covered. One minute you’re fine, and the next you’re experiencing a full-body meltdown, as if you were just dropped into Mordor. Layers come off, fans turn on, and loved ones are forced to endure the sight of you sprawled across the floor like a tragic, overheated walrus. Even my dogs, Hazel and Eazy, have given up on trying to cuddle with me. They just sigh and move further away, judging my sweaty existence from a safe distance.
The Emotional Rollercoaster No One Signed Up For
Watching a squirrel outside my window? Tears. Ran out of peanut butter? Existential crisis. That song from the ’90s playing in the store? Full-blown breakdown in aisle three.
Menopause is basically an all-access pass to the Feelings Festival, and every emotion is cranked up to 11. I now cry at literally everything. And not just sad things—happy things, mildly touching things, and things that aren’t even remotely emotional. The other day, I sobbed because a dog in a movie found its owner. How dare they play with my fragile heart like that?!
Survival Tips for You and Your Loved Ones
Stock up on snacks. Hunger makes the MeMo angrier. No one needs that.
Never comment on mood swings. Do you want to start a war you cannot win? No? Then keep your observations to yourself.
Always have a fan nearby. This isn’t a joke. I would marry my bedside fan if that were socially acceptable.
Supportive words only. If she says she’s hot, she’s hot. If she says she’s fine, she’s lying—proceed with caution.
Just ride the wave. Some days will be emotional, some days will be absurd, and some days will involve pouring juice on cereal because the MeMo has claimed another victim.
So if you find yourself crying at commercials, arguing with the toaster, or walking into a room only to forget why you even exist, just know—you’re not alone.
The MeMo is real, she is powerful, and she is here to make life a hilarious, exhausting, and wildly unpredictable ride.
Did you get the MeMo? If not, you will.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go cry over an old dog I saw in a movie trailer. Again.
P.S. – Partners, Be Warned:
If you dare to utter, “Is it that time of the month?” just know… I have zero control over what happens next. Good luck.
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