There comes a time when a woman’s hormones start fleeing her body faster than a man can click past Lifetime or he can lie when his wife asks, “Who’s prettier, me or my sister?’’

At this stage, a woman of a certain age must decide if she wants “hormone replacement therapy’’ also known in medical circles as “A small pill a day keeps the bomb squad away.’’

Doctors will give her advice on this. But it is usually up to the woman, which would be fine, except for one complication: Her hormonal tsunami makes her feel what my husband safely calls “a little edgy.’’

Example: “Honey’’ he says. “You’re ‘a little edgy’ tonight. Let’s put down that cleaver. That’s right, babe, put it down. Now hold our your hands where I can see them.’’ Certain here are no concealed weapons, he locks up the cutlery, draws me a cool bath and things go back to normal.

As you can see, making medical decisions in this state of mind can be difficult. But taking the short quiz below can help you along. If most statements describe you, see the doctor.

Ditch that. Run, run to the doctor and demand hormone pills. Take the cleaver in case he gives you some crap about staying with the “natural’’ alternatives you’ve been choking down for the last two years.

Here’s the quiz.

– You hum “Lizzie Borden had an axe” in the shower.

– You disrupted your block party by running down the street with your shirt over your head, trying to catch a breeze.

– You take detailed notes during a PBS documentary on serial killers.

– You think Larry King is looking damn sexy.

– You run out of chocolate peanut butter cups and cry for three days.

– You made a voodoo doll of the 20-something at work who asked where you bought your suit because she thinks her “mom would look good in something like that.’’

– You lose your cell phone for three days, then find it suspended in a Jello mold with pineapple chunks.

-You personal credo is: I sweat, therefore I am.

I passed this quiz with flying colors. Still, I wasn’t sure what to do about those pills. It became all too clear right before my 50th birthday, during my annual OB/GYN visit, or as some women of a certain age like to call it, “a date.’’

The doctor wanted to discuss the daily hormone pill, but frankly, the room was so freaking hot, I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. The mother of all meltdowns was taking place inside my body while I sat on the examining table. I was already practically naked so there was no sense in stripping and doing laps around the place (my normal practice at home.)

At one point, the paper table runner beneath me disintegrated and stuck like glue to my bottom and my back and they had to help me peel it off (and I am not exaggerating!)

It would have been the most embarrassing moment of my life, but I had just had a pap smear for the 33rd year in a row, so that puts things in perspective. When the doctor mentioned hormone replacement therapy I wanted to kiss him, then strangle him. Possibly in the reverse order, which would have been more kinky and fit right in with my mood.

Right then, I knew it was time for the daily pill. Apparently, so did he because he whipped out the prescription pad and then ran for his life, leaving the nurse to deal with the rest of the scraping bits of paper off my rear end.

There was an upside, though. The skin on my hindquarters was smoother for about a week. So try this at home if you don’t want to shell out bucks for a real skin peel: During your next hot flash, take off your pants, sit on a newspaper and then rip it off. The headlines may make an interesting tattoo, but you’ll have a baby’s behind when you are done.

Anyway, I started taking the little pill and it seems to be working. Thoughts about the cleaver involve pork roasts. I don’t want to kill my doctor anymore.

And Larry King looks like an old guy in suspenders once again.