I thought menopause had an end, timed somewhat like puberty. You start it, you reach its zenith, then it fades away to nothing and you are a new, more responsible, rational, peaceful person. But, just like the child’s song, menopause is the event “that never ends. It just goes on and on, my friend.” I’m talking hot flashes.
As I complained about still being victim to these sweaty terrors two years past the date of my last period, a friend mentioned her mother had them for the rest of her life. This seems very unreasonable to me. Rather than be forever reminded of my reproductive system, I should be rewarded somehow for letting my body, month after month, prepare itself for the perpetuation of the species. And, think about how I’ve helped the economy with my endless purchases of feminine products as well as the sheets and underpants I replaced due to periodic overflow. Instead, I get a jail sentence of hot flashes for life.
So, I figure I have anywhere from 30-50 years left of hot flashes, of never knowing if I’ll keep snuggled under a comforter when the wind chill equals my age or if I’ll toss off the blankets in the middle of the night, wishing the furnace would go out. Another generation or two of shedding layers like a lizard, although, unlike that creature, I do not intend to eat the offending garments. Then again, if I did eat them, it would be an excuse to go shopping. Hey, I may be on to something here. Let me get my purse; I feel a hot flash coming on.
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