Somebody Better Open Up a Window…

It’s a beautiful Fall day. The Sun is shining and there’s a cool breeze. I’ve just stepped off a frigid subway, and I’m sitting in an air-conditioned Starbucks drinking a giant iced tea. And I’m hot. No, not hot. Sweating. No, not sweating. Dripping. I’m looking around, catching the eye of coffee-drinkers around me and fanning myself. “Heh heh. Boy, it’s hot in here, innit? Heh heh” I get various responses from complete dismissal to looks of horror at my red, sweaty face and state of undress. Several just pull their sweaters closer and shake their heads. Truly, I have turned into one of those menopausal cartoons of sleep-deprived, psychopathic women undressing in public and drowning in their own sweat. I suppose there is a kind of justice here. I spent my peri-menopausal years smugly watching contemporaries with bags of frozen peas on their heads, delighting in the fact I was sailing through this. No hot flashes. No dryness. Nothing. I was kicking. Menopause. Ass.  And then somewhere between my last period and gleefully tossing out the condoms, I took a wrong turn. I must have shunned the road that leads to serenity, wisdom and “whee, we can have sex whenever we want!”, and taken the road leading to insomnia, hot flashes, and “if you never touch me again, I’m good with that”. Clearly, the roles have been reversed, and I am the one getting my ass kicked. Now, I have a very patient and understanding husband, but this was causing some friction. And not the good kind. Everyone knows that relationships take work and compromise. And above and beyond the simple acquiescences, where to go for dinner, what color to paint the living room, who knew that there would come a time when sex would be one of them. WTF? So, lemme get this straight. I can’t sleep. I’m hot all of the time, (and not the good kind), my lady bits are like sandpaper, I am not remotely interested in sex, and I live in a body that once belonged to the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I ask you, in any of the hundreds of commercials for joint pain, erectile dysfunction, or AFib not caused by heart valve, have you seen the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? No. No you have not. So, imagine my shock and dismay when I discover that I don’t see Christie Brinkley or Susan Lucci when I look in the mirror. Just me. Stay Puft Marshmallow Man with Karl Malden’s nose. I will have to accept that there is no one way to navigate the road as we get older. We can’t all be Christie Brinkley. But if we’re lucky, we have a very patient and understanding partner who thinks we’re still hot. The good kind.

Here Comes the Sun

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