Now I've never been an organised Annie and have been known to attend appointments the wrong date but right time, or vice versa. I'd think that's what I'd heard/read three weeks prior and won't bother to check, that's how I roll, badly I admit. I am convinced that the menopausal fog exists. I find my self in the middle of a sentence when.....? I can be in mid flow and suddenly I can't remember the bloody word I wanted to use and instead of styling it and replacing it with another, I shall stand there stammering and stuttering, scratching my head 'What's the bloody word?', while the person I'm conversing with stands guessing as I shake my head vigorously, 'No not that, like that, but different!'. It can go on for hours! I'm aware we all have the usual, for instance going upstairs then standing in the bedroom or bathroom not knowing what the fuck your doing there is a classic. You know no matter how long you stand there, unless you run back down those pissing stairs, you're never going to remember. It's as though the bottom banister post is a memory jogging device and as soon as you place your hand on it you shout 'Bollocks, toilet rolls!'. At
this point I usually knock the mound of coats and bags piled high onto the floor screaming 'If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times stop
dumping your shit here! Hang it up on the pissing pegs!'. You then pivot round and breathlessly head back up. Or, if you're like me you'll be sat on downstairs toilet with your knickers round your ankles ' bollocks toilet roll!'.
Then there's trudging out to face the ordeal of the 'big shop' having spent a week practically adding goods to the list that I've placed on fridge, using a parrot magnet from Tenerife with its tail missing and no beak left to speak of (ha! do you get it, I surprise myself sometimes!). I even have a pen holder I've devised from blue tack, cat hairs, and something hard that I can't identify which pokes out the side (I thinks its a Cheerio but I'm to scared to stick my tongue on it to taste). Top tip, always place pen nib down as bastard pen won't work. I rummage through my 100 bags for life, picking out my favourites, the most practical. The one from M&S, its getting shabby but got the bottle slots in end, its a keeper. My Sainsbury's Xmas one with Rudolph on front, his nose no longer lights up but the bags broken in nicely making it flexible for when a speedy bag change over is required at the tills. Waitrose, well because its Waitrose even if it does have holes worn in the corners and only one handle, one likes to keep up appearances. You know, the favourites. I always aim for the supermarket between 10 and 2, quiet time and offering prime parking. The golden oldies having been and gone up with the larks, and Mums are heading back in time for the school pick up. Of course I cover both of those categories but I'm a rarity, there's not many idiots who timed there child bearing as appallingly as I. Once parked I remove my precious trolley token hidden away in the back of the disused ashtray behind a euro, hairy hair bands and half melted wine gum. All of which are strategically placed to stop sticky fingers trying their luck (sticky fingers, wine gum, do you get it? I'm on fire today!). So, I've got my trolley I'm armed with my fave shopping bags, I've got my parking hot spot......hold on. I'VE FORGOTTEN THE EFFIN LIST. I then have to shop unguided, needless to say we lived on Tena Lady and Nutella that week. Still, least it will shake up the kids packed lunches. Now, many may say that all this happens all the time, and it does, but only as you get older!
Another thing I've become aware of is I can not concentrate on anything. A film, T.V, reading a book,even listening to my children talking to me which is a rarity. Eagerly they'll be sharing an exciting event which happened at school where apparently fuck all happens, ever, when I ask. But recently I find myself secretly thinking hurry up your boring the shit out of me and I can't keep this interested nodding act up for much longer (don't you lot make out it's just me). In fact I've got to the point where I only read magazines full of tat, the longest story line I can handle on a screen are the telly ads. Maybe my patience levels have now dropped down to zero. Maybe nothing holds my attention as I am now at an age where I am so wise and knowledgeable that nothing is interesting or stimulating enough for my brain to retain! By Jove I think I've cracked it! This is not menopausal fog this is self awareness, self appreciation, self indulgence! Nothing else matters except me and its about fucking time, it's only taken me 49 yrs (50 this yr!) to realise it!
Back soon Mave x
P.S. Or rather note to self, need toilet roll and Tena ladies.
