A few weeks ago a man approached us at a book signing. He was a bear of a guy, big and a little Hemingway-esque, with the resigned look of someone who had eaten something disgusting but allegedly healthy. He handed one of us a copy of our book and said "I’d like you to autograph this for my wife." As we signed he said he’d really enjoyed the reading, he thought his wife would love the book, she’d been having a really hard time. And even though there’s nothing wrong with her suddenly she thinks there’s nothing, not one damn thing, right with her. He thanked us and turned to go, but then looked us right in the eyes and said "She loves me. And then she hates me. Tell me this will someday end." We’re grown up. We’re professional. We’ve seen it all. And yet we wanted to throw our arms around him and gush like fools and slobber all over his not-yet-gray Papa-ish beard for being, well, for being man
enough to ask a stranger for help over his menopausal wife. But we didn’t. We restrained ourselves and gushed later. Right then we just nodded and sagely replied Yes. Trust us. It won’t last forever. It just sometimes feels like forever. He looked so relieved. As if we were the Oracles of Menopausal Women. And then we wondered What if she stays like this a little too long? Because with Google the way it is, he could so easily find out where we live.