Today I ate some scrambled egg. Whilst I adore scrambled egg, I don’t adore ‘scrambled-egg-head’ ─ one of my most dreaded menopausals.
Today I had both.
I was staying in Battersea with my friend Delia who is also menopausal. Harry (as in Harriet) was there, too. She is no longer menopausal and lives in Belfast which I still consider to be war-torn, albeit they say it’s a pretty mod place to live these days.
I really must book in some history lessons.
We hadn’t seen each other for several years and had scheduled a long-overdue catch-up in the form of a sleepover and chat. The three of us used to work together in Spain, in the 80s, which was the era of large-padded shoulders and big permed hair. I proudly wore both.
The morning started with scrambled egg and a slice of smoked salmon. I was never partial to smoked salmon as a child, but as I’ve matured I seem to have grown into it. Metaphorically speaking.
We were deep into breakfast when out of the blue Harry asked how old she was.
“Am I 57 or 58?”
She appeared to have forgotten, which baffled me as she was not menopausal.
“If I was born in 1962 and it is 2020,” she asked … “how old am I now?”
Naturally, being good with figures, I was keen to jump in. Dad was an accountant so there had been little choice – I was raised with them. That, and filing.
‘Easy,’ I thought, and began working it out.
But I was overwhelmed.
And in a muddle.
I got totally jumbled inside.
I had scrambled-egg-head which I totally dread.
I took a breath and then swallowed my pride.
“I don’t know.”
I was mortified. And ashamed.
My poor menopausal brain had gone to pot – or felt like it had smoked some.
It was happening a lot these days.
And I wanted to cry.
A quiet moment followed for us three Spanish girls, as we struggled to find words to say.
Thankfully, Harry let out a fart.
We laughed and got on with our day.
J x
(Shared from my old diaries)
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