I’m 51 years old, but I feel 15. Actually, I feel worse than 15.

This wash of emotions is bewildering. I’ve never been like this before. I’ve always been so measured, so even-keeled … always perfectly in control of my emotions. Even when I was 15 years old! No outbursts, no meltdowns.

But now… I’m unpredictable.

Irrational, bizarre.

I can only blame it on crazy mixed-up perimenopausal hormones.

Last night I charged into the kitchen and started making dinner. And I could feel a flicker of agitation growing inside me. For what? Why?

Because I’m a crazy perimenopausal woman!

And I turned on burners and chopped up chicken, and felt the agitation gathering, swelling, and I started babbling to the dogs. “Oh my god, this is crazy!” I screeched to them. “What’s wrong with me? I’m crazy! Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!”

And Holly and Jasper looked up at me worriedly.

But I kept on. Slamming kitchen cabinets, rattling pans, talking loudly and cheerfully, if a bit crazily, to myself. “This is crazy! I feel crazy! Is this what menopause is like? Who knew? Who knew?”

And the dogs, especially Jasper, watched me intently, bodies tense, with something akin to distress.

So I pounced on Jasper to reassure him, and cried with a touch of hysteria, “It’s okay! I’m okay! Everything’s okay!” and frenetically scratched his ears and pounded his rump.

He took it, but the unease in his eyes grew.

Then I ran back to the kitchen and started searching for the corkscrew. I stood there pawing through the utensil drawer, and felt this huge wave of agitation building up, cresting, washing over me. I couldn’t find the corkscrew, and I pawed faster, crazily, through the cluttered drawer, gibbering to myself and starting to laugh a little hysterically because I knew I was being crazy (crazy! I’m the Crazy Lady!), and ohmigod, who knew anyone would feel like this!

That’s when Jasper got up and left the room.

Martin even crept out of his office to check on me. He heard me jabbering wildly to myself, cackling away, heard that touch of hysteria, and peeked his head around the corner of the kitchen. “You, uh, okay over there?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes!” I screamed, waving the knife. “Doing great!”

He inched his way warily into the kitchen, poured me a big glass of wine that I’d finally opened with the corkscrew, and slid it across the counter with his fingertips. “Here,” he said carefully, with deference. “I think you should drink this.”

Me, fairly shrieking: “YES! OKAY! GIVE IT TO ME! I WILL!”

This menopause thing is a crazy experience. It’s a crazy, crazy ride.

It’s actually kind of fun, when I’m not so …. crazy.