Don’t yank my string! Menopausal wisdom is a myth.

Menopause snuck up on me. Unlike far-sightedness and varicose veins, which I simply woke up with one day, the winding down of my reproductive system was not as sudden ... or obvious. It took me some time to admit that global warming may not be causing me to overheat like aluminum foil in a microwave. At 45, menopause wasn’t on my “to do” list. And being the high priestess of list-making, if it wasn’t on my list, it didn’t exist.

Motherhood and marriage (two other sobering “M” words) instead occupied my jam-packed days. Married 25 years, with children in middle school, high school and college, my relative roles as chauffeur, warden and ATM kept me busy and distracted from the neon signs my aging body was flashing. Who had time to notice when my regular “cycle” wasn’t so regular anymore?

When it first dawned on me that I hadn’t frantically searched for something with “wings” or “strings” in awhile (and knew I wasn’t pregnant), I was torn between elation and concern. First, a party — complete with red linens, red velvet cake, a maxi pad-shaped piñata and Riverdancing on an ibuprofen-covered stage — flashed before my eyes. Then, a myriad of scary and farfetched possibilities fluttered in my frontal lobe before a reasonable answer landed with a satisfied “Aha! Stress must be the interruption in my otherwise clockwork schedule,” I told my reluctantly perimenopausal reflection in the bathroom mirror.

So, the daily grind explained my periodless conundrum, but what about my other symptoms? Was stress to blame for my newly acquired iguana-like dry skin? How about the unexplained weight gain around my middle, the hot flashes that seemed more like “hot floods” or my astonishing ability to knock into, stumble over or trip on AIR?

Eventually, the wacky writing on the wall — or more appropriately, the geriatric graffiti — became too hard to miss, so I went to see my gynecologist. He tested my hormone levels and lo and behold, I was in menopause. Initially, I was relieved that I didn’t have any life-threatening diseases that had morphed me into a sticky, leathery, zaftig, klutzy, premature senior citizen. Following relief, however, came a dose of reality ... and a heaping of humility.

Alone in the examination room with my eggless thoughts, I instantly felt for a mustache — the customary parting (with your period) gift. Women have heard the war stories, and they aren’t glamorous. But once my vanity was assuaged, another thought hit me like a ton of Oil of Olay products: I can’t give birth to any more children. Nevermind I’d prefer running with the bulls and hundreds of testosterone raging boneheads while wearing a bikini rather than procreate at this time of my life; however, just knowing I could was comforting. No longer having the miraculous, world-altering option was unsettling. Go figure.

While I vacillated between coming to grips with this new life stage I’d obliviously entered and trying to forget about it, I searched out the advice of those who’d crossed that scorching threshold ahead of me. Surely, a (sweaty) “sister” could ease me into the rest of my estrogen-leaking life.

My mother took the high road and pinkie-swore to a vague “evolved feminine perspective” that comes with a menopause membership. I now wonder if she was just high. Despite my gray-rooted, hormone-impaired, gravity-ravaged body, on the inside I still considered myself about as mature as the 20-year-old who once looked a whole lot better without a bra. What could suddenly change my world’s view or the way I felt about my almost half-century old breasts?

First, a party — complete with red linens, red velvet cake, a maxi pad-shaped piñata and Riverdancing on an ibuprofen-covered stage — flashed before my eyes.

Ma!-harishi, or Mahatmom as she prefers, declared that before menopause, a woman gathers her (metaphoric) tools, and after menopause, she knows how to use them. Sounded like menopausic folklore to me. The party line that women repeat to one another while sitting around a campfire beating drums and holding talking sticks to psych each other up for a second round of puberty. Because that’s precisely what menopause is: Puberty Two — pimples, mood swings, haywire hormones, weight gain, perspiration, hair where there was none and confusion.

Puberty stunk the first time around, and it’s hard to swallow that the payoff for hemorrhaging monthly since the age of 13, PMS, labor times three and the after-pregnancy body shock is more of the same! It’s kind of like driving in rush-hour traffic for 30 years only to finally reach your destination and have to turn immediately around and go back again.

Nonetheless, admonished my mom, consider the alternative — in this case, a fertile old age, which would interfere with my empty nest plans: traveling without a “just-in-case” case of feminine hygiene products and a pound of Pamprin. So, I kept waiting for this elusive wisdom ... and checking for facial hair.

While waiting, I decided to make a “Things I’ve Learned the First Half of My Life” list:

1. You can never have enough “skinny jeans”
2. Never a trust a guy who wears a pinkie ring
3. Life is too short for doctors without bedside manners, uncomfortable shoes or cloth diapers
4. Thick ankles aren’t the end of the world
5. S’mores, not wars, could bring world peace

Could this be the acumen my maternal Yoda was talking about? Surely there was more.

Now, a couple of years down the menopausal line, the insight my mom alluded to still eludes me. Unless, that is the wisdom of menopause: There is no wisdom.

Is menopause simply another bookmark ... a dog-eared page of life like beginning kindergarten, having your first crush or graduating dental school? Or, is it a poignant, organic reminder like, “Ready or not here comes the rest of your life!”

After all, we gals had the babies, raised the families and took care of everyone before ourselves. Menopause might be the ultimate female warning system. Our own bodies bringing the curtain down on youthful options, literally turning up the heat and hollering, “Hey, it’s my time!”

So, now that I, too, have traveled the path paved with heat-seeking hormones and random hairs, maybe another list is in order:

“What I Learned from Menopause”

1. I still make lists.
2. I’m in good company.
3. Depilatory cream works like a charm.