Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: menopause, shopping, southern, subourbonmom, walmart
So the other day I went into Walmart, a store that I loathe and desperately need at the same time. And while I go to ridiculous lengths to avoid times when I know the Creepers are going to be there, I recently encountered a new species of person to avoid: the Menopausal Woman.
Now, to be fair, I am on the cusp of becoming one of these creatures. In fact, most of the women I work with are in various stages of morphing: there is a constant battle going on over the temperature and caffein intake in our office, as well as constant discussion about why the “muffin top” won’t go away no matter how many sit-ups we do. There is also very little sleeping going on. Many of my co-workers FaceBook each other at 3:00am because they are awake for no apparent reason.
So imagine my surprise, when I have paused during my stroll (okay, pushing cart quickly, jaw jutting, not looking right or left so as to avoid getting sucked into buying shoes that I know will blister my feet, but OMG they’re only $5!), down the aisles at the pajama section, and I suddenly realize my cart is gone. Not only is it gone, but my purse, cell phone and 20 cans of dog food went with it.
I know, I know, we’ve all been told not to leave our carts unattended, and to keep our purses on our bodies. But this is Southern Suburbia, the insulated tin of Cream Cheese America! I felt naked (no purse or cell phone) and stupid, turning in circles, stalking around the pajama racks as if I am looking for something to buy and not frantically wondering how long I’ve been wandering around without my cart and where the Hell did I put it, anyway?
Finally realizing someone has walked off with my things, I faced a dilemma: Do I
a) find an employee and tell them I lost my cart somewhere between the shoes (yes, I stopped) and the pajama section, and face their looks of pity,
b) borrow someone’s phone to call my husband to come get me and admit I’m too stupid to shop at Walmart, or
c) cruise around the store looking for the perpetrator, wasting valuable time when the professionals could be catching him/her?
Of course, I picked C.
Four aisles over, I spot her: Menopausal Woman, quilted purse slung over her shoulder, staring at her list with a pencil in her teeth. I cautiously approached, experience having told me never to startle such a creature, and said, “Excuse me, M’am, but I think you have my cart.”
Menopausal Woman looked with confusion at the piles of dog food, cat food and $50 worth of toiletries (more on that later), and turned about eight shades of red.
“Oh my Gawd, what is wrong with me?” she exclaimed.
We laughed it off and I took my cart back, chuckling to myself and feeling superior. About three minutes later, I see Menopausal Woman sidling up to me again.
“Excuse me, M’am,” she said, her face a bright fuchsia. “Where exactly did I steal your cart? I still can’t find mine!”
I answered her, knowing that someday I will be Menopausal Woman. The signs are all there: I walk into rooms and have no idea why; my rear end is no longer the coldest thing in our bedroom; I have been known to stand in the grocery store parking lot and have no idea where I parked. So, I took this as a sign: be nice, for you shall reap what you sow.
Now, off to Starbucks for my $3 hit of caffein. I didn’t sleep well last night.
I’m in my forties, and things just don’t work the same anymore. As in, try going running with your 14-year-old daughter and see how humiliating that is. However, there are a few of cool things that come with being 40-something: first, you tend to know exactly what you want (a man with a 20-year-old-body and a 45-year-old brain); second, if there’s something you want, you’re usually no longer afraid to ask for it (“Yes, Waiter, I do want my steak cooked medium-well, and I don’t care what the chef thinks about that”); and third, if there’s something you really need, chances are that by now you can probably afford some version of it (a smooth bourbon and gingerale on a hot summer’s day–but I’ve been known to settle for warm beer and cheap pinot grigio).
That said, there are some expenses I’ve decided are worth it:
1. A good dye-job;
2. Membership at a gym (disguises hot flashes and you can hone your secret search for the elusive 20/45-year-old combination)
3. Underwear that fits, no matter how much it grosses out the kids (or Hubby)
4. Sunscreen (Yes, Dr. H, I was listening as you scraped off yet another questionable mole)
5. A good bed
Most of that is self-explanatory, except maybe the last one. But believe me, I think a good bed could put a lot of marriage counselors out of business.
In college, where Hubby and I met, we were happy to sleep together on twin beds (sorry Mom, it’s true). When we got married, we bought a queen–we were officially grown-ups! But when we moved to a king, well, that was Nirvana.
And yet…Hubby still managed to sleep diagonally, forcing me to curl into the fetal position all night. Later, after the kids were born, my back started hurting (go figure). For the next five, years Hubby and I spent each Saturday flipping the mattress, trying to make it comfortable (Hubby could sleep in a bowl of jello and be comfortable).
One day, we were walking through the mall when Hubby grabbed my hand and dragged me into the Sleep Number Store. Missing the shopping gene entirely, all I wanted to do was try a couple of mattresses so we could go to the cheaper places where there weren’t teenagers reeking of DIRK, or whatever the latest flavor of cologne was. Instead, and hour and a half later, we walked out having purchased a $4000 marriage-saving piece of furniture.
According to their machine in the store that measures pressure points when you lay down, Hubby likes sleeping in a hammock (#35), while I like something resembling plywood (#60). Our other mattress was definitely in the hammock category.
So we got the thing installed and marveled at how much better we were sleeping. Even The Dog was grateful (also a hammock sleeper). But there were added bonuses that I’m sure the company can’t/won’t advertise:
1. The diagonal sleeper can’t cross over to the other side without sinking or raising their legs above the level of their head.
2. There is a secret joy in annoying your spouse by inflating/deflating their side of the bed right before they crawl in. It’s a small thing, but sometimes it eliminates the need for words you might regret later.
3. If you sleep on the harder side, your spouse must first climb out of the ravine in order to approach you. There’s no sneaking a quick squeeze without causing a 6.0 earthquake, and it prevents overuse of the “I have a headache” excuse.
4. You can inflate the bed to rock-hard status for better sex. This is helpful because, let’s face it, none of us have the abs and back muscles we used to!
Yes, my world changed for the better with our acquisition. I am happy. Hubby is happy. Even The Dog is happy. Now if that gym membership would just get me those abs back…
Subourbon Mom 