Today’s forecast is 32 degrees with a humidex of over 40 (for my American friends, that’s Really Freakin’ Hot Fahrenheit) and it’s been similar weather almost every day here for going on three weeks now.
Guess what else is hot and steamy lately?
No, I’m not getting my sexy on. I’m having hot flashes.
Welcome to the menopause years.
I was out with girlfriends the other night, and we were commiserating over the regular topics: kids, work, husbands, finances. Then I started venting about the 4-H hell I’ve found myself in lately (heat waves, humidity, hormones and hot flashes) expecting one of them to chime in at any moment.
Apparently I’m the only one of the group whose body has taken to spontaneously combusting.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I was the first girl in my class to wear a bra. The first to get her period. Why not the first for this?
But commiserating isn’t the same when there’s no “co” to my “misery.” It just feels like plain old complaining.
So if you need me, I’ll be just over here, standing on top of the A/C vent, fanning myself with one hand and holding my hair off the back of my neck with the other, asking “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”