I have to face the fact that for me, anyway, menopause has ushered in an era of ultimate klutz-hood. I am constantly tripping, dropping, banging into stuff and slipping, and why I am not yet dead is beyond me.
Example: my ‘sort of’ mother-in-law (another story for another day) was coming later in the day on Sunday, and I was in frenetic cleaning mode. I’d finished vacuuming the family room, and bent down to unplug the vacuum, when I felt searing pain and the flow of liquid to accompany it. . I’d rammed my head into the edge of the buffet, a mighty sharp edge, might I add.
The liquid was red and it was everywhere. My head hurt like samurai sword had stabbed it, and I wondered if I should call someone, drive myself to Urgent Care, or stick my head in the toilet. I did none of these things. Instead, as a good First Aider, I kept tons of paper towel with tons of pressure against the wound and wandered around the house alternately cursing my clumsiness and feeling deprived that no one was home who would give me the appropriate sympathy.
Today: another tragedy – I dropped my beloved and totally funky little coffee mug. I have a thing for hand-made pottery, especially coffee mugs, and my favorite haunts to find them are thrift stores. A few months ago I found this squat, round-like-a-globe, blue and white mug that felt so good in my hand and reminded me a bit of my own mid-section rotundness. I was whizzing around in fast-forward and I thought I placed my mug on the counter, but alas, it fell before I could catch it and shattered into myriad fragments, just like Humpty-Dumpty.
So, I am grieving my mug. I am pissed about my klutziness. I think it is time to slow down.