Holy Hormones Batman

I think I scared them.

No, I take that back - I know I scared them.

And who can blame them really.

When their typically mild-mannered mother who's frequently referred to as a latter day Mary Tyler Moore (pre-surgery, circa Mary Richards) suddenly wings out on them to such an extent that they feel they're staring into the gaping maw of the She-Devil herself, of course they'd be scared.

Their crime? They asked me how long I'd be on the computer. How dare they. How dare they! Don't they know that I've got things to do too? Do they think they own the darn thing?

Oops, sorry. There I go again. I'm afraid that lately I've been a little (sigh) emotional.

I think it's the hormones. Can you say perimenopause?

I don't want to believe it's so. I have never been one of "those women" who blame life's ups and downs on her reproductive cycle. I never missed gym class because I had "the curse".

For that matter, I never referred to my period as "the curse". Or "Aunt Flow" (who thought of that one?), "my friend", "that time of the month" or "riding the cotton pony".

As I've gotten older, I've made it a point to channel my friend Barb, an ex-pat Brit who, at a recent gathering of us 40- and 50-something gals, tossed back her gin and tonic and bluntly stated, "I don't discuss menopause. I'm British." Here, here.

But here's the thing. I'm starting to act like a lunatic. One minute, our home will be a Norman Rockwell scene come to life. Then, one of "them" - husband, daughter, dog - makes a slight misstep. "Gee honey, how be we order Chinese instead of Thai tonight ?" The rage takes hold and what comes next can best be described as a 5'6" Incredible Hulk who prefers black turtlenecks and strappy heels.

But it gets worse.

I'm hungry all the time.

At first, I thought it might have something to do with exercise. Still plugging away at recent New Year's resolutions, I dug out my 20 year-old copy of Buns of Steel and started feeling the burn. Surely my ravenous state had something to do with all the squeezing I'd been doing.

I was feeling rather proud in fact when I mentioned to my husband that I was starving all the time. Assuming he would look lasciviously at my derriere, he instead queried, "Is it that perimenopause thingy?"

Gasp! He's right. I'm changing fruit and my pear is being traded in for an apple!

I feel for my husband. Between me and my pre-pubescent daughter, our house is fast becoming a toxic stew of hormones galore. This is the time in a man's life when he retreats to the garage and takes up woodworking, pronto.

Actually, I have to admit it's handy to have him around when I'm having one of my little "episodes". When I find him staring at me with that deer-in-the-headlights look that had previously been reserved for questions like, "Does this make me look fat?" and "How do you like my hair?", I know I've probably stepped over the line.

The scary thing is, this is just the beginning. I've got ages to go until I arrive at the other side - a confident, strong fifty-something woman who, though she carries her weight around her middle, runs marathons, holds office and has stopped yelling at her kids. Oh, and is the proud owner of a dozen or more hand-carved ducks. (Did I mention my husband's new hobby?)

I suppose I should accept it. Such is life and there's not much I can do to change things. Watch out kids, mommy wants to check her e-mail.

For more about the minutia of midlife- www.thebestkeptsecret.ca