You may call it what you wish - progesterone depletion, brain fog, carnality.  All I know is that I got myself in a heap of trouble this weekend all because of attitude.  The first time I handled it all right . . . I guess.  As long as the lady doesn't come to the support group I facilitate in January. 

The second time?  It was a washout.

Let me set the scene for you.  It's Saturday night, sevenish, snowing, and I'm very tired. Hoping to beat the six to seven inches that's been predicted, I don my winter coat, and dodge snowflakes en-route to my favorite grocery.  I'm feeling pretty good.  We haven't had a good snow since last winter and it puts me in the Christmas spirit for I am, along with the rest of Colorado, dreaming of a white Christmas.

It's a known fact that women are capable of multi-tasking.  We can do a hundred things at once - and, do them with finesse, thank you very much.  Grocery shopping?  Piece of cake.  I can do that with one hand tied behind my back, and a book in my hand ( I CAN to!).

Somewher e in my sub-conscious a plan takes form, "Push the cart, load it up, and solve pressing problems 1-10."  Having charted my course I shift into never-never land.

She's at fault, too, you know.  She could just as easily been in produce, or dairy, but she decided to be in baked goods.  I'm vaguely aware of her presence, but figure I can maneuver around her without any trouble, after all I've both hands on the cart, no book in sight, this just isn't that difficult . . .

It doesn't even register that I've miscalculated the distance.  Anybody can make a mistake, right? I mean, really.  She should have moved.   No, I do not hit her . . . directly.  Just a measly 1/8" the other way and she would have been praising my carting abilities, Now that's what I call a seasoned shopper.  But, huh uh.  My reputation suffers irreparable harm the second I make contact.  I don't exactly recall making contact, but evidently I did.  Seems like I do recollect a slight movement in my peripheral vision of one said black purse rapidly moving in a downward trajectory beginning at her shoulder, and ending with her wrist.

I say, evidently, because honest it doesn't even register that I've entered her sacred space.  At least not until I'm on down the aisle.  That's when I hear it, "WWWEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLL EXCUSSSSSEEEEEEEEE MEEEEEEE!!!"

I should turn around, go back and say, "Oh, I am so sorry," but, for the life of me the only thing perched on the end of my tongue is a barbed, "Like I MEANT to DO THAT!!!!!!  Why were you standing there in the first place?"

It seems the better part of valor to overlook HER offense and keep on going.  I take on one more cognitive task thinking of all the things I could have said in retort:

&quo t;You rang?"

&quo t;Yes, my dear, how might I be of assistance?"

&quo t;I'm sorry, you appear to be having a difficult time right now.  Were you traumatized as a child??"

&quo t;And, a Merry Christmas to you fair lady."

&quo t;Do you know Jesus?"

What I really wish to say is, "And a bah-humbug to you  my dear."

Of course, I'm not totally stupid.  For the rest of my venture I am on enemy alert, keenly aware that she might be down the next aisle, or hiding behind the potato display waiting to whip me with that big, black bag.  For a moment I am seized with paranoia, What if she's waiting for me just outside the door?

I have opportunity to seethe every time I think about that woman and her purse for the rest of the evening, but I placate my conscience with a reminder that at least I kept my mouth shut.

Wish I could say I handled it that well on Sunday.

By Sunday morning I have justified my rudeness, and when I wake there she is, Atta.  Atta Tude to be precise.  She's patiently waiting by my bed, slippers in hand.  I guess she snuck in the door with me the night before. I'm not sure where she slept.  She's bigger than I remember, a little crustier, but I call her sister, drape my arm across her shoulder and drag to the bathroom to get ready for church.

While I comb my hair, she sits on the side of the tub, and we just kind of chat.  She mentions in passing, "To bad you had to get up a whole hour early for choir practice.  You really could have used your sleep."  We high five, and I take comfort in knowing that at least some one is aware of my sacrifice.

She chatters non-stop all the way to church.  "Remember that woman at the store last night?  She sure was testy. If anybody ought to be in church this morning, she should be.  Speaking of church . . ."  I should make her stay in the car, but I don't even try.  By now, Attitude and I are buds, walking arm in arm.  She gently reminds me that I don't really want to be here, and I grumble, "Yea, I know, but I don't have much choice." I'm ready for battle.  The only redeeming factor is my new Christmas dress in which, I might say, I'm  looking mighty fine.  Not wanting to spoil the effect, I replace my scowl with a facade of contentment which lasts approximately 37 seconds.  Just long enough to walk through the sanctuary doors, and discover that we are wearing, of all things, choir robes.

I don't do choir robes.

As a matter of fact, we haven't done choir robes in this church the whole time w've attended this church.  Maybe you wear them EVERY Sunday, but, we don't.  We don't even wear them every decade.  Which brings me to my next point, I know they haven't been cleaned in at least that long.  My new dress looks a sight better than these old choir robes.

&quo t;Whose IDEA was THISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS?" I blurt out.

Atta is fairly bursting with pride.

I throw her a less than friendly look.  Mortified I think, "I can't believe that came out of my MOUTH!"

Hoping to soften the blow I say, "Menopause and choir robes just don't mix."

No one smiles.

Neither does any one take credit for the choir robe idea.   I'm thinking, This is just great. Just great!  I've hurt someone's feelings and can't even say sorry because I don't know whose stupid idea this was in the first place! 

Fully satisfied that her mission has been accomplished, Atta rises, turns and walks out the back door leaving me totally on my own.

It doesn't make matters any better when my newly adolescent son Ben walks by, wrinkles his nose and says, "You smell like celery, Mom."

Right.

Yup.& ;nbsp;

It was a washout.