Book Waiting Blues

I normally try to go to our post office when I think that everyone else is at work. Why? Because going to our post office isn't just and in-and-out deal. It's an event. However, in this case, I was determined to slide through this event because there was a yellow card in my post box. A yellow card means that something to big to fit in the post box has arrived and they are holding it for you in the back somewhere. (I've always wondered what it looks like in the back of the post office where they hold all the yellow card goodies.)

On this day, I knew what it was because several days earlier I had ordered a special book right after I had such a knarly hot flash that it sent me flying out of the radio station to stand under the falling snow, little white, flakes sizzling on my chest and arms as they fell from the sky.

The line at the post office was out the door. Not unusual for lunchtime. People of all shapes and sizes and ages were waiting with their yellow cards. I could hear the scrunching of snowboarding pants as the "dude" in front of me shifted his weight from one leg to the other. A Latino Senora was scolding her two little boys in Spanish because they were pulling out all the colorful packing envelopes from the wall display. And among the group of us standing in line, there were about twelve, was an elderly gentleman wearing a tan ski had pulled low over his ears. He was standing perfectly still. So still, that I wanted to sneak up behind him and blow in his ear to see if he was still alive. But I didn't. But I wanted to.

I bet he wasn't picking up the type of book I was waiting for. No way. Unless it was for one of his daughters who happened to be my age and who also happened to be in the beginnings of "the change."

Friendly postal worker Debby came out from the back and announced, "Does anyone have a yellow-card?" Three-quarters of the line scrambled to the front holding their yellow cards out in front of them for Debby to collect. Once the cards were all collected, Debby dissappeard again and we shuffled to the corner, waiting patiently for our gifts.

I couldn't help but wonder if I was the only one in town expecting the book, "The Wisdom of Menopause" by Christiane Northrup. I had heard about the book years earlier but like I said, I somehow thought I would skip through this part of life since no other women in my family ever talked about it. It was something that "other" women dealt with. Not the women in my family. Or so I was lead to believe.

After about six minutes, Debby returned with an armload of goodies. She called out our PO Box numbers one by one and when mine was announced, I held out my right arm, letting the cardboard-wrapped book slip into my hands.

I jammed out to my car and tore open the cardboard. And there it was. The book. No, THE BOOK!

I opened to a page, any page hoping that the wisdom I read would be a sign that it would all be okay. What was the first sentence I read? "Like many other peri-menopausal women, I had hit a metabolic wall; our midlife bodies seem to hold on to fat for dear life until we learn the secrets of releasing it!"

Great. Now I have to learn secrets.