First I assumed it was the other change -- the spring to summer change. Then, I assumed it was a wacky (external) thermostat. I even thought I might be getting sick.
But I think I'm about to enter another wave of hot-flash hell.
A hot flash has a voice of its own. Think Linda Blair in The Exorcist: "You only feel hot, but you're not lookin' so hot, lady. In fact, you're looking downright dowdy. And just in case you think you have a handle on any of this, I'm gonna hit you upside your head with doubt to go with the dowdy. Nya-ah-ah!"
It's cruel, is what it is. And having two beautiful young daughters who of course don't have the perspective to appreciate their youth and vibrancy doesn't make it any easier.
I remember a shopping trip with my mom when I was a sophomore in high school. She was complaining about hot flashes and feeling out-of-sorts, just like I do now. All I could think then was, "Stop complaining, Mom. You wear a size 6 and I wear a size 10 ... so just stop complaining!" (I always hated that I got the short, stocky genes from Dad instead of her tall, slim genes.) I so didn't get it -- nor could I be expected to understand where she was in her life when I was at that oh-so-self-centered age of 16. I wish I could tell her now that I GET it, finally. She'd probably chuckle and tell me to appreciate even my 50's because, in comparison to the 70's, 50's pretty darn young.
The memory of youth is annoyingly persistent, but the reality of age can't quite yet be considered wisdom. The desire for desire is there, but the desire itself is slipping slowly away.
I have to keep reminding myself about that perspective thing.
(And as I wrote this entry, this is what was playing on iTunes-- over and over because I love its Queen-like catchiness:)
Friday, June 15, 2007