I had to go to the laundromat on Sunday. It’s about 25 minutes away, and I didn’t want to go. But I went begrudgingly and hoped that the car ride on a sunny winter day and the change of scenery would help. So, I loaded up the car, and off I went. Fortunately, it was quiet with only a couple of people there when I arrived. But unfortunately for me, I forgot the quarters stashed at home.

“That’s okay,” I thought. “I have $20 in my wallet, so I can get change easy enough.” Except that it wasn’t so easy.

Each time I fed my slightly tattered and worn $20 into the machine, it spat it back out like you might do when you drink sour, curdled milk unknowingly. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have bothered me. I would have let it roll off my back and problem solved effectively.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The young man in the laundromat sensed my frustration and offered to help. He said how the machine could be “testy,” and for a second, I had hope. Until that wretched machine spat out my money at him too — three times. He apologized after his last attempt, although he had no reason to do so. He was being kind and trying to help someone he didn’t know and could see was becoming increasingly frustrated. I thanked him graciously and let him know I appreciated his willingness to help.

I left the laundry in the washers. Then, grumbling to myself, I returned to my car and sat for a minute. Genuinely frustrated and on the verge of something, I started the car and headed over the bridge to the bank. I thought maybe my money, which I had folded and tucked in my wallet, wasn’t crisp enough for the machine.

I convinced myself that this idea would work. And off I went into the bank. And that’s when it hit me that I rarely withdraw cash, and I wasn’t sure of my PIN. “Well, it could be this, or it could be that,” I said to myself as I inserted my card and prayed for my memory to recall the correct details. 

I entered the first of my two choices. Sadly, the machine rejected my first attempt.

So, I tried again. But to no avail. I took my receipt confirming my failed attempt and found myself even more frustrated. I was sure the second number I put in was correct, so I went off to the bank across the street with determination.

There, another kind person held the door for me, and I was grateful for his smile and courteousness. “Let’s try this again,” I said as I inserted my card into the machine. Then, still feeling frustrated with the situation — not to mention the fog brain that had settled in too comfortably — I entered the amount I wanted to withdraw. Only to realize that in my irritated state I had entered $2,500 and not $25.

Holy hell. My heart raced as I quickly canceled the transaction. I took a deep breath, disconcerted by this WTF moment, and then inserted my card again. This time, I went slower and entered the right PIN and the correct amount. Finally, I collected my cash and headed back to the car. Although still reeling a bit from my mishaps, I was slightly optimistic.

“Okay, it’s going to work now,” I thought as I held the clean, crisp bills in my hand. So, I inserted the $20 into the slot, and immediately that flipping machine spat out my money again. Over and over until I finally called it a terrible name and went back to my car.

I felt defeated. I was tired. I was frustrated that I couldn’t figure out a solution to this seemingly effortless challenge. It wasn’t like me. But then again, I haven’t felt like me for a while. And that day seemed to be the culmination of many preceding months, days, weeks, and hours of fighting what was happening.

What I did next was something I didn’t want to do, and it took every ounce of pride I had to call my husband and say, “I give.” But, I don’t give up easily. I’m the one who finds solutions.

But not Sunday. Instead, I was a hot freaking mess with more issues than a newsstand. Finally, my husband answered, and I spewed out my frustration with the situation with tears streaming down my face. On the other end, he was calm and rational.

“Honey, don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll come to meet you and bring the quarters. Did you try running down to the convenience store, buying water, and getting change? Maybe the machine won’t take the $20 because there aren’t enough quarters. Try a smaller bill.”

I sat silently on the other end for a minute. I honestly felt like such an ass. It’s a solution I would have thought of at the height of my game. But my game is rough these days. I do my best to keep it together and fight the good fight. But I gave into it on Sunday. I let every ounce of vulnerability and emotion shine through because, at that moment, I was tired of pretending to be okay.

Game over. I had enough. And deep down, I knew it would bubble up at some point.

So, I took my husband’s advice and went and bought a Seltzer. For half a second, I thought about buying a nip of vodka to put in it also. But I’m a mindful drinker, and I don’t do it that much. And it was only 10 am. However, if there was a day to give up that mindfulness, sign me up because I was ready.

So, I went back down the street with smaller bills in hand to try again.

This time, I faced that machine with a slightly more confident conviction. “Are you going to defy this five-dollar bill,” I thought as I carefully inserted it into the slot. I held my breath as the machine swallowed that money like the hungry whore it was, and I felt my heart skip a beat as the coins clanged on metal as I had just won the jackpot.

I felt a sigh of relief. Then, convinced I could call my husband and tell him not to come, I tried inserting the $20 again. I was beginning to think that the machine was messing with me by this point. Was there a camera and a person behind it that I couldn’t see? Of course, not, Laura. So, then I tried a $10. But it didn’t like that either.

Fortunately, I had enough to start the washers. And I’d take that as a small win. So, I decided to retreat to my car and regain my composure. But unfortunately, my frustration had gotten the best of me, and my waxing and waning hormones were at it again. It’s not an easy feat navigating these waters. It’s even harder to admit that it’s happening.

When my husband arrived, I felt relief again. I was grateful that he interrupted what he was doing to come and help me. I couldn’t help but get all teary-eyed and quickly kiss him goodbye. I didn’t care that he didn’t stay. I knew he had things he had to get done. But it bothered me that I had such a hard time figuring it all out.

I guess that’s part of this thing that they call Perimenopause. And I pray that I have the resilience to climb this mountain, reach the summit, and then walk back down with my head held high. My friend Jeanne tells me it’s liberating. I’ll have to take her word for it for now. But at this moment, it seems overwhelming. As I arm myself with more knowledge and tools, I’m sure it will be better. At least, I hope so anyway.

I’m sad that my mom isn’t here to talk with her about it. And for the life of me, I can’t recall how it was for her. If she struggled, I never knew. But, she always did carry the world’s weight with dignity and grace. And now I have to wonder if that was the best thing to do? Except that I know it wasn’t a subject openly discussed. Fortunately, it’s better now.

But, we need to have conversations. We need to encourage and support each other. We need to educate ourselves on how best to navigate these changes and keep asking the questions. Then, we need to decide how to manage it in a way that works for us. It’s not a one-size-fits-all. And we need to know that we aren’t alone as our bodies change and our hormones play challenging games of roulette with us.

I realize there’s a long road ahead. And quite frankly, I’m not looking forward to it. But I have hope that somewhere in the midst of it, I’ll find my way again. In the meantime, I’ll be here sharing my stories about my duel with Peri M. Pause. She’s in for a hell of a good fight as I prepare to meet her twin sister, Men. O. Pause.