It began like any other morning.  Alarm screaming in my ear, followed by the requisite 5 or 6 taps on the snooze button.  Arising finally to whines, mumbled complaints, and general grump. And that was just from me. Shortly, I awaken my son, Gigantor, to whines, mumbled complaints, and general grump – his reprise of his mother’s lack of morning personness. He is his mother’s son. Half an hour later, coffee in my hand, breakfast in his, we head out the door to school. Like any other morning, we giggled at Laugh USA, chatted a little, quick kiss, wishes for a good day, and Gigantor was out of the car headed inside. 

One last wave, and I headed toward work.  As I came to a stop at the intersection, I noticed a new sign posted just beyond the sidewalk.  I looked, blinked – not quite trusting my still sleep-addled brain to be reading it correctly.  My jaw dropped open as I read it again, ensuring that I had, indeed, read it correctly.  Posted before me, mockingly, was a sign – nay, a banner – announcing the soon coming of a play to the Oxford Center for Performing Arts….a play entitled, “Menopause. The Musical.”

I believe something like, “Wha? Wha?” was escaping from my agape mouth, but before I could regain my senses, a horn honked lightly behind me urging me to move through the intersection. I didn’t glance at the driver behind me, but I’m certain it was a man.  A woman – a sister – would have understood my pause. 

Menopause. 

The Musical. 

I don’t know what to think.  I don’t know how they’re going to pull it off.  But I’m sure as heck going to go and see it for myself!  I think I wouldn’t miss it for the life of me.  For just a moment, I thought that perhaps someone had written a play just for me – I love musicals…I love stage productions..but I don’t love menopause.  Or, more precisely, perimenopause. Technically, I’m still 6 months out from being a bonafide member of the big M society. That’s neither here nor there.  If Menopause is anything like her little sister Perimenopause, we’re going to have issues. 

I wonder…will the ushers hand out paper fans along with the playbill – or will the playbill be fan-folded?  Will there be copious chocolate at intermission?  Will ice water be handed out along with blankets? Will the local Heating and Air guys be onsite earlier in the day to ensure that the AC units are all operating properly, Freon is topped off, and thermostats are set to Antarctica? Perhaps anti-itch cream will be offered by concessions girls, along with magnifying make-up mirrors, hot wax samples, and indigestion aids.  I’m certain that Xanax in Pez dispensers personalized to resemble the face of each theatre goer’s husband would be a welcome addition…I can imagine the glee to be had at flicking their little heads back with a perfectly manicured thumbnail. Ah, the joy…………………………………………………sigh………………..Oh, ahem.

Pardon me. I digress.

I don’t know how they’re going to do it, but I’m going to see for myself.  Comedy, yes...I can see the humor in menopause...when I’m not in the midst of a hot flash, or the middle of a sleepless night, or a mood swing, or skin clawing full body itch…but any other time, yes.  Menopause makes me laugh regularly. Mostly in a maniacal fashion following a comment to my husband such as, “Go ahead.  Fall asleep”.  But I do laugh. 

Musical, I’m not so sure about.  I have yet to feel like bursting into song.  Flames, yes.  Song, no.

We shall see.  A few hundred women at varying stages of the M society will be there judging.  They better hope it’s good.  Or they better have a LOT of chocolate.  And wine.