I used to be cool.
No, literally, I used to be cool. I liked blankets and sweaters and warm cozy fleece. Now, even looking at a pair of woolen socks gets me sweating. Yes, that's right, this bod, she is a' changing.
Southern Man, a native Floridan, has tried to be patient, but even he is stretched to the tip of his Southern hospitality as blankets get ripped on and off throughout the night causing permanent scaring on his neck. Always a snuggler, Southern Man is looking into wearing potholders to bed on his hands since cuddling up to me is a lot like hugging a thermonuclear reactor.
Only women truly understand this. Oh sure, men TRY to understand. They pat our hands, they open windows, they even turn on the AC in the car but look quickly and you see the slight roll of the eye, the sigh, like, "Really? I mean, really? You're hot, again?"
Yes, again and again and again. It's not like I'm having a fiesta in this furnace. If sweating throughout the night, waking up changing clothes, sheets and pillows isn't enough to frustrate me, I have been woken up several times to sprint to the bathroom. I could be a contender in the upcoming Olympics for a gold or at least a bronze metal. However, I would probably have to race toward that "sensitive bladder" aisle in the supermarket before completing my victory lap.
Why? Why? Why is this happening? I just turned 50. Okay, more accurately, I am about to turn 51, but in my head I am still in my mid 30s and no where near Menopause Mountain, or so I thought. Where the heck did that time go and why am I having such a meltdown in both body and spirit?
Hormones schmormones. Weren't those awkward teenage years enough? I mean I had a cowlick, freckles, a space in my teeth, matured too early and oh, let's not forget gianormus feet that stuck out like surfboards. Trust me that was torture. Or how about the baby weight that I am still trying to remove from various parts of my anatomy (and the baby is now 21 years old). When Mother Nature is enough, enough?
And don't get me started on mood swings! I can change my demeanor faster than a speeding shopping cart aimed at someone who ticked me off by taking a parking space at Tops Friendly Market. The hardest part is I never know what's going to start me off. An insurance commercial had me crying, a newspaper ad for shoes had me sighing, Southern Man just walking across the floor smiling had me so fueled with fury I could have literally pelted him in the head (or Haayyyyduh as Southern Man says) with the TV remote for basically, no reason whatsoever. Okay, he said I was beautiful. Why get mad at that? Because the only thing I feel beautiful about is screaming at the size 0 model in the magazine trying to tell me the key to happiness is new lipstick.
It's like that movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but there is no end in sight. My doctor said this could go on for a few more years! That's right, YEARS!
So I am buying Velcro clothing, opening up all the windows, shutting off my phone, throwing out the papers and TV, standing in front of the freezer and giving Southern Man body armor.
But first, I have to sprint off to the bathroom.
