Before the bathroom demolition began, I knew we were going to have to take everything out of our closets and move it to the guest room while the renovation is taking place. So I took the opportunity to clean out my closet a bit. I channeled my inner J-Lo, a la American Idol, and made some initial cuts.
And here’s why.
Every morning when I get dressed for work, I stand in my closet and ask, “What am I going to wear today?” As early as two years ago the criteria by which I narrowed down my selections were a) is it wrinkled? and/or b) does it fit? Now, my daily wardrobe selection is determined by these five important words,
“What if I get hot?”
Yes friends, I am talking about hot flashes.
Thankfully! my hot flashes are no where near as debilitating as was my recent experience with insomnia. And I am grateful that I only have them sporadically (though I have noticed that the increase in frequency and intensity of my hot flashes is directly proportional to an increase in my alcohol consumption and/or stress). Go figure.
No, for me, hot flashes are mostly annoying. And embarrassing. If you’ve never had one, you just don’t know what kind of fun your missing out on. So let me break it down for you.
For me, a hot flash starts out as a subtle warming in my belly. Usually the heat being generated will gradually disperse throughout my upper torso with no major harm done or humiliation. A quick fan with a magazine or newspaper is all it takes to recalibrate my inner thermostat. If however, I’ve had a glass of wine or a cocktail (or two) or get stressed out (me? what stress?), my internal furnace can easily fuel this quiet simmer into a full rolling boil. And that’s when it gets ugly. The steam that is generated by this raging tempest starts creeping up my chest and throat and then accumulates at the nape of my neck. The heat then disperses over my entire head where it finally condenses into little beads of sweat on my upper lip and forehead. It’s usually at this point that I have to excuse myself and go stand outside or head to the lady’s room for a minute to regain my composure.
Which brings me back to the turtlenecks. They’re like lids on a pressure cooker. And that’s why they have to go.
And why I am forever now – Queen of the Cardigans.