I have always been clumsy. Not “quirky-but-still-elegant clumsy”… There are women who glide through life with grace; I am not one of them. Menopause has only made this painfully—and publicly—obvious.
I’m talking about bumping into furniture that has lived in the same place for years. Tripping over absolutely nothing. Dropping things while already holding them securely. That kind of clumsy.
But menopause? Menopause looked at my natural lack of coordination, rubbed its hands together gleefully, and said, “Oh, we can do more with this.”
And so, here we are.
Stupid O’Clock and a Mystery to Solve
My day often starts at stupid o’clock. You know the hour—when the house is silent, the world is still asleep, and your brain decides now is the perfect time to be wide awake for no reason whatsoever.
To be honest, I don’t entirely mind. I do love the quiet time in the morning to just “be” before the rest of the world wakes up.
But to navigate that peace safely, I first have to perform a careful, half-conscious manoeuvre. I reach for my contact lens case next to the bed and sneak off to another room so as not to disturb the man or the furries. This step is essential, as without my lenses, I will walk into things. Walls. Door frames. Furniture. Possibly pets. I have learned this the hard way, so I pop the lenses in, shuffle off, and begin my day.
Fast forward to that evening.
It’s time to remove the lenses—and this is where the real adventure begins. Because every single evening, without fail, I find myself asking the same question:
Where did I put the case?
I never remember. Morning-Me, in her wisdom, puts it somewhere “safe”. Evening-Me has absolutely no idea where that safe place is. And so begins the hunt. I search the desk, kitchen counters, bathroom counters, loo windowsill, random shelves, the kettle... sometimes I even check the fridge. Because at this point, nothing is impossible.
The case has vanished into the Menopause Bermuda Triangle, along with my short-term memory and any remaining sense of logic.
Speaking of Mysteries… The Key to My Heart (and the Car)
We are a one-car household. This requires a level of logistical coordination that my current brain simply cannot provide. We have a key holder. It’s a lovely, sturdy little thing mounted right near the door, specifically designed for one job: holding keys... and yet, it is the loneliest object in our house.
Every time my patient man person needs to leave, the ritual begins. He stands by the empty hook, pauses, and says the words that now haunt my existence: "My love... the keys?"
I, of course, have no memory of the crime. I know I walked through the door. I know I was holding them. But between the front door and the kettle, the keys have entered the 'Safe Place' Witness Protection Program. They have been found in the pantry on a stack of cans, on bookshelves, in Checkers bags, in the WC, in the fridge… to name but a few.
He finds them eventually, usually with that same quiet acceptance that makes me love him even more, while I stand there wondering why my hand decided to let go of them anywhere except the place they actually belong.
Love from the Dentist
Recently, menopause decided I hadn’t been humbled enough. I had to visit the dentist.
YAY… NOT.
Now, I have a genuinely lovely dentist. She is kind, quick, and very good at what she does. I can say this while still absolutely loathing dental work. She injected me approximately a million times, and the right side of my face did exactly what it was supposed to do—it went completely dead and oddly fluffy. Like a numb marshmallow.
Off I went, newly repaired and mildly traumatised.
Naturally, I popped on my sunglasses. Sunglasses are non-negotiable. Essential equipment. I do not go anywhere without them. A small detail worth mentioning: I had sat on these sunglasses a while ago, and there was a crack in the frame on one side. This will be important later.
As I drove home, my eye felt sensitive. My vision felt strange. My eyelid was doing that prickly, half-alive thing as sensation started returning. Vision was a bit weird, and the eye felt weirdly sensitive to light. I assumed this was all entirely due to the deadness of my face and eyelid. Logical... Sensible... Completely wrong.
As I drove, I noticed other drivers looking at me oddly. Some seemed to be holding back smiles. Others openly laughed. Naturally, I assumed my face must look enormous. Puffy. Lopsided. Like I’d been stung by something aggressive.
At the last robot before turning into our neighbourhood, I stopped and finally decided to check the mirror, just to see how fat and puffy I looked.
And that’s when I saw it.
The lens on the right side of my sunglasses had fallen out. Completely. I had been driving—confidently—with one eye behind a lens and one eye naked to the world. One eye in. One eye out.
NO BLOODY WONDER.
I can only imagine what the passing motorists saw: a woman with a numb face, squinting slightly, wearing broken sunglasses with the absolute certainty that she looked perfectly normal.
Family Reactions-
When I got home and shared the story, the reactions were… predictable.
My wonderful man laughed, shook his head affectionately, and said the phrase that now seems to punctuate my days: “Oh my love…” It’s said with warmth, with humour, and with the quiet acceptance of a man who understands that this is just how life is now. I love him so very much.
My girls? "OH MAMMA…" no mercy. There was hysterical laughter. Snorting. Re-enactments. A level of joy that can only come from knowing your mother has once again outdone herself. I don’t mind; I love hearing them laugh. One of my favourite sounds.
Maybe that’s just it. Do I do silly things subconsciously just to hear my kids laugh and see my beautiful man person’s smile?
The Menu Manoeuvre
It’s not just sunglasses, though. Regular glasses are also part of the conspiracy.
We recently had a year-end function at a lovely restaurant. Naturally, I arrived without my reading glasses. I usually rely on my man’s pair or do that thing where you hold your phone over the menu like a bomb disposal expert, zooming in to 500% just to see if it says "Chicken" or "Children."
But this time, I ended up sharing my boss’s glasses. Thankfully, I have a great boss who was willing to hand them over. But it made me pause—imagine asking a perfect stranger?
"Excuse me, I know we’ve never met, but can I borrow your face for a moment so I can order lunch?"
I’m sure they would understand. I am surely not the only one.
The Kettle Faux Pas
Recently, our electric kettle broke. It stood uselessly on the counter with a little water still in it—a silent, misleading decoy pretending to be helpful. We’ve been using the stovetop kettle on the gas, which works perfectly well. No problems. Simple. Reliable. Except… apparently my brain didn’t get the update.
On more than one occasion, I’ve done the usual routine: Tea bag in the mug. Mug ready. Autopilot engaged. And then, hearing the cheerful whistle of the gas kettle a few steps away, I—without thinking—pick up the non-working electric kettle and pour cold water straight into my cup.
It’s not that I don’t know which kettle works; I do. It’s that muscle memory has decided it’s in charge now, and it refuses to attend meetings or accept new information. So there I stand, staring at my sad cup of cold tea, wondering how I managed to outwit myself yet again.
Well, after a few incidents too many, I finally threw out the electric kettle. Not because it was broken—but because I clearly was.
Other Highlights from the Fumbles & Foibles Files
These incidents have not happened in isolation. I have:
• Put things in the fridge that have absolutely no business being refrigerated.
• Hidden important items in “safe places” that turn into archaeological digs.
• Worn my gym pants inside out to the shops, labels flapping proudly.
• Walked into rooms and forgotten not just why I was there, but who I am and what year it is.
At this stage, I don’t even react anymore. I simply pause, possibly sigh, and carry on.
When Everyday Things Stop Feeling Easy
There’s also a quieter side to all of this, the part that doesn’t make people laugh straight away.
It’s not that I can’t do things anymore—I can. It’s that everyday tasks that once happened without thought now feel… different. Opening bottles isn’t hard, exactly, they just feel different and unfamiliar in my hands.
Showering sometimes requires more attention than it used to—handling soap, being aware of slippery surfaces, the way the towel feels fat and uncontrollable in my hands… noticing how things feel rather than just doing them.
Putting on a necklace? I’ve worn necklaces for decades, yet those tiny clasps now feel like a high-level dexterity test.
And the bra. HOLY [insert swearword here]… Trying to line up those little hooks and eyes—something I’ve done thousands of times—can feel like threading a needle in the dark while slightly sweaty, irritable, and running late.
Tying gym shoe laces. Handling fragile things. Small, precise movements that once lived quietly in muscle memory.
None of it is impossible. It’s just no longer automatic, and that’s so unsettling because when your body has always known how to do these things, noticing that pause—that extra effort—can feel like a small, daily reminder that something has shifted.
This is the part that’s hard to explain. If you say, “I’m struggling,” it sounds bigger than it is. If you say, “I’m fine,” it feels untrue. The truth sits somewhere in between.
Your body hasn’t betrayed you. It’s renegotiating. Learning new rhythms. Asking for patience where it once demanded speed. And some days, that adjustment feels heavy.
What I’ve Learned (Besides Checking My Sunglasses)
Somewhere along the line, I learned to laugh at my embarrassments, not because the foibles and fumbles stop—they clearly won’t—but because we can take away something important.
This phase of life isn’t about holding it all together perfectly.
It’s about learning to laugh (with the wonderful man and the children) when things go sideways. About letting go of the urge to be polished and composed at all times. About accepting that sometimes your brain misfires, your hands fumble, your sunglasses lose a lens at exactly the wrong moment, you put the kettle into the fridge and the milk on the stove, or have to find something in a “safe place”.
It’s okay.
If menopause has taught me anything, it’s that dignity is overrated—but humour, kindness, men-folk who say “Oh my love”, and hearing your children laugh when you mess up are priceless.
So, if you see a woman driving with one lens missing, wearing inside-out gym pants, it is probably me… or another 50-odd-year-old, slightly dazed but doing her best…
Be kind.
She (and consequently her family) is navigating menopause. And honestly? She’s probably hilarious and has forgotten where she is going and what she is supposed to be doing.