The Platinum Rule

I’m telling you, the little things add up. Squeeze them all together, roll them, squish them, sit on them like an overstuffed suitcase while you try to zip the edges closed. Just when you think you got it, you stand up, tilt the suitcase upright and it explodes throwing your well-organized life all over the place like a college freshman puking after a rush party.

That’s the way it is with menopause. I mean I don’t have any experience in it, but occasionally I feel like all the little irritants from my life have been rolled, squished, pressed down until that fateful day when the hormones have had enough and some unknowing person says something rude. For example, I was walking my dogs when the 8-pound Chihuahua took a peanut size poop along the road and I had run out of bags. A woman driving by screams out her car window, “You need to pick that up.” And I yelled back, “You need to kiss my ass, bitch.” My rule is not quite as good as the golden one, but I say “Never f**k with a woman going through menopause.” We’ll call that the platinum rule.