“Do you love me as much when I’m stupid as when I’m smart?” I asked Dear Don, trying to be nonchalant. It was not a pathetic attempt for attention.

“What?” he inquired back, looking confused. I repeated my question.

“Of course I love you more when you are stupid because that makes me smarter,” he explained.

How did he just manage to turn my moment into his and then compliment himself, I pondered.

Typical male.

But seriously, I have done some pretty stupid things of late, things Dear Don is privy to. More stupid than usual for me and too numerous and embarrassing to enumerate here. Suffice it to say I might be the reigning Queen of Stupid for the summer of 2010.

What makes a grown woman who has been on this earth for near six decades resort to stupidity anyway?

Shouldn’t said woman have gained insight and knowledge and wisdom just from her mere existence?

Guess not.

Most of my stupidity comes from not making sound decisions. I’m having a real problem with that. If I’m here I want to be there, and of course if I’m there I want to be here. I eat when I’m not hungry and don’t eat when I am.

I run in circles like a dog chasing its tail. I can’t seem to find a comfortable, confident place to land my ample self. Nowhere feels exactly right.

Poor Dear Don should be exasperated with me, but no. He encourages my stupidity and me (because we now know it make him feel smarter). He sympathizes with me with one eye on the NFL football channel. He eventually pats me on the head and leans in to kiss me, letting me know that it’s all OK. And then he disappears to his office where he holds up until my mood changes.

But actually it is not OK. I struggle each day with what to do first, middle and last and some days wind up doing nothing because I’ve exhausted all my time and energy trying to just figure things out.

Who knew getting old could be so hard?

My head sweats so profusely at times I feel as though I have a sprinkler system hidden in my hair.

I’m hot all the time; unless I’m freezing. My elusive hormones are hiding and laughing at the woman I have become.

I’m fidgety and ornery and not subject to taking much advice from well-meaning folks. I laugh at everything or find nothing funny. This change that I have been going through for the past ten years is taking far longer than I had imagined.

If the old Werewolf of folklore had taken this long to make his transformation from man to beast he most likely would have found a new gig.

Did I just sort of compare myself to a Werewolf?

Gosh, I’m in worse shape I thought. That was stupid for sure.

I need a really cold drink, some chocolate and a nice nap under the fan. Are my arms getting hairier?

You get the picture.

(Contact award-winning columnist Sherry Hopkins at swhcsc@wildblue.net.)