The Great Public Supermarket Meltdown, Aisle 5
It started as a normal grocery run. I was strolling through the aisles, minding my own business, when suddenly, menopause hit me like a freight train. One second, I was fine; the next, I was melting from the inside out. Sweat dripped down my back, my face turned an alarming shade of red, and my glasses fogged up so badly I could barely see the price tags. I ripped off my jacket and started fanning myself with a bag of frozen peas, but the relief lasted about three seconds before I was drenched again.
Then came the emotional ambush. I reached for my usual block of cheese and nearly choked on the price tag. When did cheese become a luxury item? Before I knew it, I was sobbing, clutching the cheddar like it was my last lifeline. A poor teenage employee, clearly out of his depth, hesitantly approached. “Uh… ma’am, are you okay?” he asked, eyes wide with fear. I turned to him, tears streaming, and wailed, “I just need AFFORDABLE DAIRY!” He nodded slowly and took a cautious step back.
Just as suddenly as the tears came, they vanished—replaced by uncontrollable laughter. I doubled over, cackling at the absurdity of the situation. People were staring. Someone whispered, “Should we call someone?”
But honestly, what could they do? This wasn’t a medical emergency; it was just menopause in all its unpredictable, chaotic glory.
Eventually, I pulled myself together, paid for my ridiculously expensive cheese, and walked out of the store with whatever dignity I had left. Later that night, I told my husband about my breakdown in the dairy aisle. His response? “You should’ve bought ice cream instead. At least you’d have gotten a cool-down out of it.” Men will never understand.