Why Choosing Dinner Has Become a Whole New Adventure

The Menopause Menu Meltdown: 

There was a golden age in our marriage — a simpler, sweeter time — when my wife could open a restaurant menu and pick a meal with the speed and precision of a hungry ninja. Boom. Decision made. Job done.

Then menopause waltzed in like an uninvited relative who plans to redecorate the entire house.
Now choosing dinner feels like we’re filming an episode of 24 — except the clock is ticking down to her declaring she’s “gone off everything for no reason.”

Act One: The Menu Arrives

She opens it. Takes a breath.
Her eyes glaze over like she’s just been handed a legal contract for an international arms deal.

“Why is there SO MUCH STUFF?” she mutters, as if Nando’s suddenly became War and Peace.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking,
“It’s literally six things and a side of coleslaw, love… but okay.”

Act Two: The Emotional Rollercoaster

It starts calmly.

“What are you having?” she asks.

This question is not curiosity.
This is a lifeline. A life raft. A flotation device.

I tell her my choice.

“Ooooh,” she says. “I was thinking that… but also the pasta… and maybe the curry… AND the steak… but steak feels heavy… or is that just me?”

Welcome, friends, to Menupause — where logic pops out for a smoke break and leaves the hormones in charge.

Act Three: The Spiral

“Do I even LIKE chicken anymore?” she wonders out loud.

She has eaten chicken almost daily since the late 90s.

Now she’s questioning it like it’s a toxic ex.

Then comes The Look.

You know The Look.

That wide-eyed, slightly panicked stare that says:
“Help me, but don’t actually help me, but maybe help me a tiny bit, but if you help me I will be annoyed.”

And so begins the most delicate dance known to man.

I gently list options.
I try my supportive voice.
I even go as far as reading the menu with her, like we’re co-authoring a novel.

But hormones don’t care. Hormones want chaos.

Act Four: The Waiter Approaches

The waiter appears, smiling, unaware of the psychological warfare taking place at table 12.

And she freezes.

She had just decided. JUST.
We were THERE. We had SALMON victory in sight.

But the waiter’s presence triggers a full system reboot.

“I’ll have the, um… oh god… what did I decide?”
She turns to me like I’m her spirit guide.

“You said salmon,” I whisper, like a man delivering classified intel.

She nods. “Yes! Salmon!”
Waiter writes it down.

“…Unless the risotto is good?”

And BOOM.
We’re back at square one.

Final Act: Peace at Last

Eventually — after an emotional arc worthy of an Oscar — she orders.
And guess what?

She loves it.
Absolutely loves it.
Tells me I should’ve ordered it too.

And we laugh — because honestly, if you can’t laugh at menopause, it will absolutely eat you alive.

So Here’s the Truth, Lad to Lad (or Lad to Anyone Surviving Menopause in the House):

• It’s not about the food.

• It’s not about indecision.

• It’s about hormones turning the simplest choices into a full-blown diplomatic crisis.

Your job?
Stay calm. Be kind. Bring snacks.
And never underestimate the emotional weight of choosing between roast potatoes and fries.

Menopause changes things — but it also deepens the bond, adds humour to places you never expected, and reminds you both that you’re a team… even when the enemy is a menu with too many options.