At forty-one I was a vibrant, independent, sexually aware woman. I liked my uncomplicated life just as it was. Which primarily centered-around casual sex, happy hour and crying spells alone in my room. Between these damn hot flashes and running a business, I was a hormotional mess. I did not have time for a relationship or, (gag) love. Not that I didn't believe in its existence. Because I did. I loved my son, my parents, my guys, and air conditioning. But romantic love? I wasn't sold. But the one thing I was absolutely certain of? Menopause and middle age were no laughing matter. So of course I met him when I was at my all-time emotional low. Sweat, tears, bloat, involuntary flatulence, tantrums... he never even flinched. This man, he loved me at my worst. As for me, I was so caught up in my past, so scared of the future, that I didn't ask questions. Nor did I notice the danger surrounding us until it was too late. I was convinced nothing was worse than being hormotional. But, I was wrong.