"Rolled down the road through the intersection," said the garbage man.
"Was anybody hurt?"
"No, but you're on top of the STOP sign," explained the market owner, who was squatting and peering underneath.
"Someone's going to have to pay," said a passing woman.
I was able to drive off the rather tall stop sign with no apparent harm to the car. The two gentlemen righted the sign, which now has a twisted facade. "The state'll come along and fix it," commented the garbage man.
But how did it happen? Could it have slipped out of park? Or didn't I even put it in park? Was this a menopausal mishap due to menopausal fog?
If so, I'm worried. I don't even realize I'm in the fog until I've had a mishap. I confessed the rolling car business to my sister. She laughed. "Then you left the scene of the crime, I mean, accident."
Was I supposed to stay?
Maybe I need help before I accidentally turn into a criminal.
Fog on the ocean can be dangerous. The wisest way to handle it is to settle in and wait for it to lift. Once this summer, I awoke to a pink fog. It was the early morning sun shining through the mist and the effect was a warm intoxicating light. I didn't think about it being fog and I didn't want it to burn off. Maybe that's what menopausal fog is like.
I'd like to settle in, spend my days dreaming, writing and painting, waiting for the fog to lift. In fact, that should be part of the menopause prescription: time out to futz around in your fog. But I'm not sure the powers that be are ready for that. Until they become enlightened, am I doomed to become a menopausal menace to society? Or will I spiral through mishap after mishap into menopausal madness?