Vets, Pets and Automobiles: It’s Not My Fault — It’s Menopausal Madness
In my series of blogs on depression meets the menopause I’ve focused largely on the darker side of things, so I thought it was about time I shared one of the funnier moments that still makes me chuckle.
IT was an Autumn evening and I was rushing against the clock. The veterinary surgery closed in just a few minutes’ time and I needed to pick up some medication for one of my furry family members. Could I make it? Just…
With five minutes to spare, I arrived in the vet’s car park, a menopausal sweaty mess, but I had made it.
As I screeched to a halt, pulled on the hand brake and opened the car door I allowed myself a moment of victory. High fiving myself all the way to the reception desk I smiled at the vet nurse — a big beaming smile that nicely disguised the beads of sweat on my brow.
Two minutes later and I was ready to go home, medication grasped firmly. My task was complete.
Saying a swift goodbye, I nodded at the waiting pet parents and got back in the car, feeling rather smug.
Perfect evening
As I’d been in a rush, I’d not bothered to lock my car so it only took a couple of seconds to jump back in. Goody, nearly time for a big plate of meatless spag bol, a cuppa and my secret addiction: an overdose of Holby City. All the ingredients for a perfect evening.
Well, it would have been if it hadn’t been for one tiny thing… my distinct lack of observation!
On many occasions, I have been known to walk past someone I know, completely in my own little world — something that’s even more apparent since the advent of the menopausal years.
It’s funny how you do some things on automatic pilot, like getting in your car, isn’t it?…
Anyway, it’s funny how you do some things on automatic pilot, like getting in your car, isn’t it? Or is it just me?
Everything was going so well until THAT moment — the moment when suddenly things weren’t quite as I expected.
It all began with a little thing really. The warning signs were there early on but, once again, I, in my world of menopausal madness, completely missed them.
The first and most obvious sign: my seat didn’t feel quite right.
Had that extra half packet of Oreos last night made that much difference to my derriere or was the car seat just that little bit more upholstered than I remembered?
Something’s wrong…
I adjusted my seating position, then put my hands on the steering wheel and raised my gaze upwards, preparing for the obligatory mirror, signal, manoeuvre before I set off.
Weird.
Something didn’t feel right.
Then, out of the darkness, horror of horrors, a sound…a feint gurgle at first, then something altogether more disturbing…a baby’s full on cry!
WTF?!?
Had someone set my phone to a strange ring tone? Were there some human sounding kittens in the car park that I’d mistaken for sleeping policemen?
I shuddered, the cold seeping through my natural padding into my bones.
I took a deep breath and looked around me. Glancing across the car and peering into the darkness, I spied a baby seat, complete with animated, agitated little human. I felt my heart do a fandango and another bead of sweat run down my already rather soggy back.
A quick check of the rearview mirror and not one, but two, pairs of eyes looked back at me quizzically.
A quick check of the rearview mirror and not one, but two, pairs of eyes looked back at me quizzically. The penny was finally starting to drop.
Clutching hold of my keys I made a desperate attempt to shove them into the ignition. Nothing. I tried again. Still no joy. With the heat rising in my face and pretty much every other part of my body, I let out a little apologetic whine. It was all I could muster.
Clearing my throat, I whispered, in between baby cries: “I’m sorry, I think I’m in the wrong car.”
Clearing my throat, I whispered, in between baby cries: “I’m sorry, I think I’m in the wrong car.”
My words were met with an instant and rather loud guffaw from the highly amused teenager on the back seat.
Time to escape…
Embarrassed and humiliated, I apologised again and made my escape, baby cries and childrens’ laughter still ringing in my red ears.
At this point, I’m guessing a good number of people may have hot footed it out of there.
Oh no, not me!
In my menopausal madness, and with a warped sense of duty, I panicked.
What if the children told their parents about the incident and said a strange woman had tried to abduct them? I might end up on Crimewatch! The shame!
There was nothing else for it, I’d have to do the right thing.
Taking a deep breath, I took a quick look around the car park and went into the veterinary practice again.
Tentatively approaching the front desk, and in a lowered voice, I explained what had happened, in GREAT detail, to the amusement of onlookers and the receptionist.
Why on earth do I always feel the need to go into detail at these excruciatingly embarrassing moments? Personally, I think it’s some kind of ritual self-humiliation habit…
Why on earth do I always feel the need to go into detail at these excruciatingly embarrassing moments? Personally, I think it’s some kind of ritual self-humiliation habit I’ve developed. It’s not clever and it’s most certainly never pretty!
Whatever the reason, by now I was covered in more liquid than the Man From Atlantis. I was perspiring from every pore. The menopausal meltdown was in full swing.
Absolution awaits
I waited for absolution.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” a voice piped up. “I’m taking them back to their parents soon. I bet they were laughing, weren’t they?”
I smiled and nodded feebly before making my exit into the night.
My only saving grace? It was dark, it was very dark and the VW I’d mistakenly clambered into — complete with pop up family — was kind of the same colour as my car.
Well, they both had four wheels and were grey. Similar enough, don’t you think?
Do you have any funny stories of menopausal madness to share? I’d love to hear them. Drop me a line or leave me a comment and help me see I’m not alone in this! :D
Asha Clearwater is an NCTJ (National Council for the Training of Journalists) qualified journalist who’s been a news reporter, features editor and arts editor, as well as editor of several national business magazines.
Today, through her business Turquoise Tiger, she coaches SMEs on the art of great storytelling to promote their products and services.
Asha occasionally freelances as a writer for national magazines and is even behind some of the information boards you’ll find strolling through Woodland Trust Forests.
