On Meeting Menopause -Menopause Mystery Series (Part 1)

The Stranger In My House

The Stranger in My House

Today I discovered that a stranger has been living in my house. Apparently, she has been living here for some time. Call me crazy but I don’t recall when she arrived. I also cannot recall inviting her into my sacred space, and I most certainly do not recognize her.

I expect that on making such a discovery, most normal people would be alarmed. Some might even grab the nearest rolling pin as a protective mechanism. Those less dramatic than me, would at the very least, ask some questions. They would demand to know who the stranger is and how she got here. When did she arrive? Was she in some form of distress and did she need my help? Why did she come to my house? But me? I wasn’t afraid or overly anxious because she seemed somehow, familiar. For my part, I simply observed her, sometimes with searing stink-eye over a period of many days. I saw that she and I were of a similar physical build. We were both Black women, around the same age. She however, had a couple of deep lines around her mouth and I noticed that her boobs hung somewhat lower than where mine usually sit. Whereas I am muscular and toned, she was a bit softer; though you could tell that at some point, she used to work out. She looked so much like me, but I am Me and She is someone else entirely and it would be sheer craziness to think that we are somehow related. If we were, why didn’t she alert me to her arrival so that I could prepare? Why would she creep up on me like a MoFo?

Working Up the Courage to Speak

On most days, I would leave for work and would also leave The Stranger to her own devices in my house. My days are long and full. There is little time for thinking about her or for engaging in any deep analysis of my current living situation. Truth be known, we spend a lot of time together as it is. She has been accompanying me to the gym, she seems to keep the same sleeping and waking hours and she eats dinner with me. She is often in the kitchen as I cook, providing little nudges and suggestions about the need to add a pinch ore salt or another handful of rosemary. I noticed that she cried a lot. Sometimes, in wracking sobs but mostly softly, to herself. This is what led me to speak to her for the first time. We were in the kitchen where I was preparing a meal while she keenly observed me. We did not exchange any personal details, but I sensed that both she and I were relieved that one of us was finally breaking the ice. I did not wish to upset her more than she already appeared to be, so I tentatively asked why she cried so much. She said she didn’t know.

And Then the Floodgates Opened

She could not comprehend how or when she had gone from being a completely rational, sorted, loving, intelligent, tight-bodied, firm-assed, I ain’t bothered, together-kind-of-woman, to feeling overly emotional, confused, angry, questioning her relationships and intellect. Did she still love her husband? Was she truly happy? And when and how did she put this damned weight on, when she had been eating so healthily, and sometimes less than before? When the hell had she developed these noticeable facial lines- I thought Black Didn’t Crack. And how come she now had to work out three times as hard to achieve a tenth of the muscle definition? Why couldn’t she sleep. Perhaps this explains why she was so emotional, she surmised. And needing to go to the bathroom multiple times during the night had become an actual thing. Oh… and lest she forgot…the dry vagina.

Why oh why had I even opened this conversation?

This was so depressing, but I felt it would be rude to cut her off. Thankfully, dinner was finished, and I announced that we had better get it while it’s hot. By the time dinner was finished, her mood had improved somewhat. I cleared the table, washed the dishes, and put leftovers in the fridge. All the while, she sniffled, and she lurked and even suggested a cup of sleepy tea before bed, but she didn’t lift a bloody finger to help.

Coming Next Week- The case of the Dry Vagina

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