Walking down the hall, at work, I stop; I don’t know where I’m headed or why.  As per usual I think back to what I was doing before I ended up here—to see if that will give me a clue—nothing comes.  Desiring to appear busy, I consider what I might accomplish now that I’m up and down the hall—bathroom—coffee—copy machine? Still early, I opt for coffee.


At first I was alarmed, finding myself looking in closets and wondering why, or holding a tub of butter—in the garage, but not anymore. I have lots of company.  And along with everything else that arrives with menopause—this is, comparatively, a lesser evil. 


Women cope with this brief memory loss differently.  One co-worker has Post-it notes plastered over one arm.  Perhaps extreme, but it works for her and has the advantage that our male bosses, fearing she’s nutty, leave her to herself most of the time.   The majorities of women rely on the tact of repeating, over and over, a single word until we reach our destiny, and achieve our objective.  This once appeared crazy until the age of headsets and wireless phones; we look normal now.  There are those that rely on a solitary note.  This proves successful, unless as with one peer—caught making a u-turn with note in hand, had to go back—to get her glasses.


Exposing these memory blunders could unnecessarily distress the corporate world, but we remain fully functioning.  We’re creating business plans, conducting market research, and booking travel arrangements—we’re simply baffled—why are we gazing into the refrigerator!  Men either don’t have this dilemma, or it’s trickier to recognize in men.  An educated guess is that a man would find himself in one of three places:  the kitchen, in front of the TV, or in the bathroom.  If he’s in the kitchen, unsure of why he is there—look cookies!  If it’s the TV, well—hey, there’s the remote!  And if he finds himself in the bathroom—you get my drift. 


I marvel how our great, great female ancestors dealt with menopause.  I bet a sharp historian could track the first females that were branded as witches, and burned at the stake, as the women who survived long enough to enter menopause.  I’m sure that a woman wandering around the village, and experiencing this lapse of memory would attract some rumor. 


Menopausal woman.  “Pardon-eth sir-eth, why-eth am-eth I-eth holding-eth this-eth butter-churn-eth, and-eth why-eth am-eth I-eth in-eth this-eth garage-eth?”

Male Villager.  What’s with this wacko, and why is she adding –eth to every word?  Most of all what is a garage?  We haven’t even invented cars yet.  Somebody get the matches-we’ve got ourselves a witch.”


I’ve resolved myself to the small and unimportant nuisances that come with age; I’m saving my worries for the big ones—the ones that—that—oh, crap—I forget.