The three amigos
“The neighbours will see you,” my husband objected as I threw off yet another layer to shimmy and shake in front of the windows. “Aren’t you embarrassed?” Nope. That’s where the stereo was. I had room to move. Besides, like a teenager, I was living for the moment. My emotions were on a high, and the high-step kicks on the carpet came out of pure exuberance.
“Is the Dancing Queen home?” I heard a neighbour ask at the door as I was twirling to a song. “Oh, it’s Abba night tonight?” she asked when she heard the music. “It’s Abba night every night,” my husband said wearily. Then a pause. “Does she have all her clothes on?” my neighbour asked. “Yes,” he said. “Thankfully. Come on in.”
My husband said, "Enough!"
Finally, my husband had had enough of the wild music, the “10 Tongue Tips that Drive Him Wild” articles staring up at him from magazines piled on the coffee table, and his hormone-induced wife chasing him around the bedroom. “You’ve got to see the doctor,” he insisted. “This is not normal. You’re in your fifties!” I reminded him that most guys would thank their lucky stars to be in his shoes. But he protested, “Sure once in a while, but not 24 hours a day!”
Perhaps he had a point. I went to the bookstore and the library looking for information on my “condition.” But all I found were books written by authors influenced by their own “distressing menopause experiences” (I couldn’t relate), chapter titles like “How Do I Get from Ho-Hum to Hot Sex?” (already ahead on that path) or books talking about menopause as if it were a disease looking for a cure. The Seven Menopausal Dwarfs listed on one current website — Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Bloaty, Sleepy, Forgetful and Psycho — had been replaced in my house by my three amigos: Hot, Happy and Horny. No cure needed. I just needed to know how to deal with them.
