ATTENTION, ALL MENOPAUSAL WOMEN:
In case you were thinking of accidentally forgetting to renew your antidepressants and weren't concerned about missing a few days, think again! Here's why:
You go out for sushi with a large group of extended family members.
Everyone's done eating and your order still hasn't arrived. You go into a hunger-related psychosis and verbally attack your waitress, demanding your goddamned, fucking halibut sashimi NOW. She makes the mistake of pushing back, saying it's not her fault that the sushi bar is backed up.
This further incites you. "I was a waitress for ten years and you're a terrible waitress," you scream. "And you better not add a gratuity because we're a large party, and where is your freaking manager so I can get you fired?"
You continue to rail at the pretty, petite, Japanese manager who smiles the entire time you're yelling because she doesn't understand English and thinks you ordered a "tuna roll" when you said, "Heads should roll."
And then there's a moment where you sort of have an out-of-body experience and you're looking down at yourself, thinking, "Wow. That bitch is cray-cray." You soon return to your body and the table whereupon your siblings, nieces and nephews treat you like you're strapped to a self-detonating bomb.
Quickly your mood swings and you're overtaken by remorse and leave the waitress a 25 percent tip, even though the kitchen ran out of your goddamned fucking halibut sashimi and you had to eat your sister's shitty, soggy seaweed salad. You also notice you're cursing a lot.
You're picking up a latte at your favorite internet cafe when suddenly your entire body is awash in a hot tsunami.
It starts behind your knees, sweeps mercilessly up to your groin, floods your armpits and rolls into shore at your hair follicles. You ask the manager if you can, just briefly, step into the freezer locker and she lets you, probably because she heard about you from the manager at the sushi place. While you're in the freezer, you eat a wheel of gruyere.
Sitting down makes you hungry.
Standing up makes you hungry. Looking out the window makes you hungry. Sleeping makes you hungry. Breathing makes you hungry. Your mail carrier thinks you're pregnant, which both flatters (because she thinks you're young enough to get knocked up) and appalls (for obvious reasons).
After everyone's in bed, you watch the "Friends" episode where Phoebe thinks a stray cat is the reincarnation of her dead mother.
This makes you think about what would happen if you died and your children looked for your reincarnated soul in stray cats or feral possums and how that would ruin their lives and they'd end up living in the gutter with grocery carts full of stolen cat food, which makes you cry endlessly, but you can't help thinking as you're crying that this loss of fluids might somehow stem your hot flashes.
While cleaning the house, you feel like your body is full of electricity and you should probably be an X-Man or X-Woman or at least power a Tesla.
You think you could plug the vacuum cleaner into your mouth and vacuum the whole house. You don't want your husband to touch you in case your electric shocks collide with your watery hot flashes and you inadvertently electrocute him. You also can't believe that there's a lightning storm in your living room.
Once your husband is asleep and you have insomnia, you're overtaken by a desperate love for him.
Because at 57, he's already beginning to die more quickly than you. You can't stop hugging and kissing him. You can't help smothering his feet with your feet. Then, just as quickly, his irregular sleep breathing pattern pisses you off and you ask him to roll over.
"That does it!" your husband cries. "You're unbearable." He bolts out of bed and dashes out (as quickly as a dying old man can dash) to get an emergency supply of your meds from the 24-hour pharmacy. Two days later, all is right with the world and you again have an enormous craving for sushi.