I'd like to begin this post with an apology to my husband. I'm going to be making fun of him, but it would be much harder to make my point without doing so. Not impossible, but I don't feel like working too hard. Plus, it's funny. Here goes.
I am not a sweaty person. I mean, I glisten like all girls, but I rarely drip.
The same cannot be said for Scott. "Glistening" is an enormously inadequate word to describe his perspiration situation. Profuse is perhaps better ... also abundant, copious and overflowing. For example, he has a stand for his bike in the basement so that he can use it during the winter. He had to drape towels on both the bar and under the bike to contain the puddles. Ick. A smart wife would avoid that area of the basement for feaf of falling into an unmarked quagmire of sodium chloride. She might even take it a step further and suggest that her darling spouse reserve biking for the warmer months, when he can just drip down the street. But, I love Scott. And for some reason that I totally don't understand, he loves to exercise. So, we do the best we can. Plus, street sweating is barely an improvement on basement puddles, because he will eventually come home. When this occurs, I am faced with a creature that vaguely resembles the one who left a few short hours ago. He's still tall and handsome, of course, except his face and neck are white. I don’t mean white, as in lacking melanin. I mean that he is white, as in coated with an unnatural film of salt that God did not intend. Yeah, I’ll give you a minute to digest that. Eeew.
The point is that I am not like this. Even when I used to do Tae Kwon Do, I stayed moderately dry. Kicking, punching and breaking boards with my bare hands were no match for my pores, which are quite good at retaining water ... like the rest of me.
However, I have recently been giving Scott a run for his money. The days are not so bad, but the evenings are gross. Every 30 minutes or so, I have a hot flash. This results in feeling that my own body is an uninhabitable inferno. In a panic, I rush to get my hair off my neck. Then, I hurry to minimize my clothing. Pant legs get pulled up and socks get tossed aside. In the comfort of my own home, I surrender to the sensation that my limbs are on fire by draping my arms and legs all over furniture, creating odd angles and positions that should only happen if you have broken several body parts and are in traction.
Then, I flail around trying to find my handheld fan. That's right. I have a handheld fan. It's from Brookstone and it's awesome, a little embarrassing, but awesome. I highly recommend it to all my friends ... in 20 years when they go through menopause. I put the fan right in front of my face, so close that I sometimes hit my nose with the "finger safe blades." And then, I sigh.
Since the weather has gotten beautiful, I have added a new move to my routine. I call it the kleenex wipe down. I've started to drip, in rival quantities to my dear husband, and it's disgusting. I could be chilly, cuddled under a blanket while watching a movie and then ... all of a sudden, I start sweating like a pig. I glisten enough that I need to mop off my forehead and some less easily accessible parts of me. Then, two minutes later, I'm cold again.
Luckily, my symptoms are in the moderate range of discomfort. Earlier this week, my doctor asked me if I have night sweats. "Yes," I replied. She asked if they wake me up from sleep. "Yes." Then, she asked if when I wake, my shirt and sheets are soaked through thereby necessitating a bedding and pajama change. Thankfully, I answered: "no."
So, I guess it could be worse. Still, though, I say: "Suck it, menopause."
