Menopause or Lunacy

The Chairs are NOT the Issue

Having settled into my new digs, (a funky, late 1950s or early 1960s apartment, obviously designed by architects on certain substances, based on the lack of 90 degree angles to the walls, the front door located at the side, and the whole building situated askew on the lot), I decided the time had come to give my Muskoka chairs a facelift. They no longer fit in with my color scheme, but I still wanted to use them, cuz, to my way of thinking, the outdoor chairs give the indoor space a neat look.
So I pulled the paint brochures off the bookshelf and re-acquainted myself with the paint colors I’d been pondering for some time, but about which I’d done nothing. Why not try out one of the colors on the chairs, as opposed to jumping right into the major endeavor of painting the entire apartment?
It was “salsa” that leapt out at me. Was this a step back to my former partner, now current friend, from Mexico? Maybe, but the bottom line was that I really liked the color. Besides, I’d already been using and wearing Santa Fe and Mexican colors before I met said Mexican ex, one of the reasons he was attracted to me. Another is that I liked spicy foods. (Note, readers, that these are not good reasons upon which to build a relationship!)
Off I trekked to the local and quaint hardware store to purchase my paint, along with scraping instruments to at least partially remove the traces of previous incarnations from my chairs. They were deck chairs, after all, so why would I bother to properly remove the layers of paint, and the one coat of stain, with chemical remover? I didn’t want to have to transport the chairs anywhere to redecorate them. After all, then I’d have to wait for the love o’ my life to arrive with his van—a delay that might derail the entire project. And the chemical remover might just kill, or at least cause terrible health side effects for me and my lovely Miss Kitty. Was I justifying not taking the time to do the job right? You bet!
Having purchased my tools, and the paint, in both flat and high gloss versions so I could paint the entire chairs with one and then dapple the finish with another (in the Jacquard style), I wandered home to start my project. Now playing appropriate tunes for the work at hand, I covered the carpet (awful as it was, but it wasn’t mine to destroy) and started my scraping and sanding. As always, the time was passing by much more quickly than was the progress of the project at hand. But I was making progress, so I soldiered on.
Then a strange thing happened—particularly strange since I didn’t yet know of my menopausal state. I began to cry. No, wait, I should say that I began to sob uncontrollably, to the point where I had to put down my tools, sit down on the floor, and cry. What in the world was going on? I simply was redecorating my Muskoka chairs! I attempted to answer that question, through ramblings and rumblings, which turned into rantings, intermingled with my sobbing. I carried on to the point that my lovely Miss Kitty, awakened from an afternoon nap in the bedroom, made her way down the hall to stand in front of me and stare, somewhat quizzically. So there we sat looking at one another. I then shifted from my ranting and raving approach to the problem, whatever it was, to having a more controlled conversation with the cat, attempting to explain to her what I was feeling and why.
It all boiled down to this: here I was giving these chairs their fourth incarnation, each time in a new partnership, and each time alone. Even the first time, when I had been just recently married, I was decorating my chairs alone. What was my problem? Was I never going to find a partner with whom I would decorate my chairs— you know, together? Was I never again to find myself living with a partner? I was sneaking up on 50 years old and I was decorating my damn chairs alone … again! Once I’d shouted those statements at Miss Kitty, she up and wandered into the kitchen for a nibble of kibble, my sign that we’d finished our conversation and it was time for me to get back to work.
Back to work I got, and soon the whole process of sobbing and carrying on started all over again, and this time I thought my sweet sailor might be home and within range of his telephone … maybe, just maybe, but doubtful. “I know”, I said to myself, “I’ll leave a message that I’m thinking of him and I’d love to hear from him when he gets home.” So I got control of myself and called this man who I’d been dating for only four months. I became a little less in control when I heard his voicemail greeting, but got things under control. I started to leave my message and managed to sound rather cool, or so I thought, and then something shifted, and I was crying and blathering something about feeling so sad and lonely here working on my chairs. Then, before matters got worse, I gathered myself up and asked him to call me when he could.
To my surprise, he called within an hour, sounding very concerned. He wondered first what had happened. Then, in concerned-guy fashion, he asked if he’d done anything to cause me such an upset. “No!” I assured, and attempted to explain my tears, all the while trying to keep the jerkiness from my voice so he could understand what I was saying. I’m not sure he ever really understood, but he very sweetly offered to abort his boat project and drive in early to see me, instead of waiting until dinner time. I realized instantaneously that I’d like that to happen, but that it would be silly for both of us to get off track with our tasks. But I also realized that because he was concerned (even though he didn’t really get it) and because he cared enough to alter his own plans, I now could proceed with my chair decorating and wait to see this pretty darn cool man later that evening, when we’d have dinner, some wine, and probably some good lovin’. That’s all I had needed. So I explained that I’d be okay and that we both needed to get back to work, and thanked him so much for caring. My very puzzled Philippe then hung up and we both returned to our projects.
I must confess that a few tears fell on and off throughout the rest of the afternoon, until I readied myself for my sweetie-pie’s arrival. But mostly I considered my strong reaction to redecorating these bloody chairs alone, once again, and what they represented. Most importantly, I’d made it through another of my strange, huge mood swings. I’d felt comfortable seeking Philippe’s help in getting to the other side of this moment of despair and he’d responded lovingly. So all would be well and I’d face my painting task the next day with much more strength—and ideally, with much more...