Dripping with sweat after drying my hair in the chic yet small Boston hotel room, I told Thomas that my new nickname should be Hot Flash. We joked that I could make her into somewhat of a comic book character and immediately saw the potential for a regular skit on Saturday Night Live. Young women would be in a situation in which they’d want to demand better service but wouldn’t want to be labeled a Karen. They’d say something like “this feels like a job for Hot Flash” and yell “menopo, menopo, menopo!” and she’d show up, glistening with sweat wearing ill fitting Lululemon athleisure, itching for a fight. “She asked for a venti, sir” Hot Flash would say, tossing the grande iced chai in the face of a sassy barista. “And an almond croissant, not a plain one.” she’d hiss while tearing off a piece of the erroneous baked good with her teeth. “Thank you, Hot Flash!” the young women would say, as she took off with a cup of ice she dumped over her head. Who’s with me on this? Anyone? Who you gonna call? Hot Flash!
Thomas and I were in Boston to see David Sedaris and, if you know me, that is the ultimate birthday gift for sure. Dressed in a pair of coulottes and a jacket he said “looked like it had been attacked by a bear”, the packed Symphony Hall applauded his outfit and giggled at its quirkiness. He is known for wearing outfits like that, the audience now expects it. As he read his stories and we laughed at his edgier comedic moments, ones that challenged our current wokeness I would say, I couldn’t help but be jealous of his skill and delivery. What made this man so damn funny and successful? I want to be him. Seriously, I really do. When he opened the floor for questions at the end as is customary, I was sorely disappointed and a little perplexed. Someone asked him if he always had this voice or if it has changed. Hunh? If it were me asking, I would throw something unusual out there like “if you were to travel to another time period, what would it be and why?” This would be sure to get a hilarious response. Although I did not wait afterwards to get anything signed by him, I did dream that I sent him a flattened out family sized box of Eggo waffles and asked him to sign that so I guess I now know what I have to do.
This morning, Thomas is golfing and I am writing at his place, sweating through my pajamas because hot flashes are now the norm. He belongs to a course here in Plymouth and alongside music, craft beers, oysters, and the ocean it is one of the things he loves; he has been itching for this rainy weather to go away so that the season could start. I have golfed once and my best friends will attest to the fact that I am the worst. I couldn’t even drive the ball and by hole three, I decided to just spectate and eat the pudding shots Meg had made for the tournament. I had just had three of my wisdom teeth pulled the day before so these things went down very smoothly. Needless to say, eating the hot dog at the luncheon afterwards was a challenge. Thomas, however, is apparently a very good golfer, an “A” player which I assume to be the highest ranking. I’d like to try golfing again, maybe even take a few lessons on driving. In the meantime, I’m going to stick to writing because that requires absolutely no physical skill and only mild embarrassment due to grammatical errors I tend to make all. the. time. One of the things that make our relationship work well is that we honor one another’s independent loves and celebrate our shared ones too. It’s that simple.
This week is April Vacation and for this teacher, it is much needed. The craziness of my home life layered on top of teaching teens all while riding the waves of my hormones, cycle, and faulty thermostat takes a lot out of me. I. Am. Tired. Mom makes fun of me for saying this so much but it’s the truth. I haven’t always been pleasant to be around the past couple weeks, just ask my kids. I own that though and apologize often, something that is most important to do for all humans and the singular most important lesson I teach my kids—own your shit. As a woman navigating this new phase of my life without much of a guidebook or ability to predict, I have far less tolerance for bullshit and could easily see myself playing the role of Hot Flash. I could do without the crazy periods, thickened midsection, and interrupted sleep though. The amount of supplements I take to quiet all this is ridiculous. Black cohosh mixed with thistle this or that, who knows if it even works. It’s called “Pausitivi-T” I think. So far, I guess it makes me more pleasant but that may be the Prozac that just got upped. As I marinate in the bath trying to finish this piece, I’m struggling with how to tie this all up with a bow. Maybe that’s the point, there is no real conclusion to this one but to show you that growing old can be sucky, funny, and beautiful all at the same time. I may no longer be 24 but I’m a hell of a lot more self-assured than I was then and that’s a relief. I’d like to tap that girl on the shoulder and whisper a few words of wisdom. Alas, I cannot. So I write and hope that some young thing takes my words to heart and remembers them when the dawn of menopause arrives at her door. Until then, just say “menopo, menopo, menopo” when you have a job for Hot Flash.