toooo hot. i am waaaay toooo hot waaaay toooo often. this peri/meno/post thing just goes on and on and on.
i have friends – they know who they are – who have had “i-think-i-had-a-hot-flash-once” experiences. how – exactly – is this equitable?? perhaps – in some involuntary way – i have taken on their burdensome backpack full of hotflashes…i have – involuntarily – embraced hotflashes for the whole gender. it would seem so. speaking of gender – what – exactlyyy – is the yang-for-men of this – our yin?
hot flashes are “damnedable” as my sweet momma would say – pretty much the harshest of her language save for a few choice times. they wreak havoc. they turn the best of intentions into sweaty messes. good grief. even writing that gives me a hot flash. let’s just say they are … not attractive.
regardless of my distaste for these hormonal ridiculousnesses, they often happen at night – in the middle of my insomnia or, if i’m particularly unlucky, in the middle of a snippet of sleep.
so i try to plan ahead.
i open the window next to my side of the bed. i figure if i can feel the breeze coming in, i will feel better – refreshed and relaxed, ready for sleepynightnight.
it doesn’t matter what the temperature is outside. it’s still … necessary.
d doesn’t always agree. there he is – all zen-like, snugged into the flannel sheets, under the comforter and the quilt, his 32 degrees long underwear at the ready. reticent.
i mean, he always relents. thank goodness!
but i guess he’s imagining he is out there with agnes and chip hailstone, ricko dewilde, andy and denise, jesse, sue aikens – living life below zero – in the overnight.
it is likely the heron’s. we have seen a couple together out there – gliding through the marshland, standing regally by the side of the pond, walking sedately. we hiked past the downy feather, that had likely fallen from where down is hidden beneath the heron’s outer feathers, and i went back, the talcum powder white capturing my attention on the trail. sometimes i pick up feathers – to keep them, beautiful signs of divine and freedom and flight. i left this one on the trail, tucked between the pine and the cone, its texture begging notice.
under the outer layer of my straight hair is an unruly curly layer. the days i do not blow-dry my hair, i am banana-curled, little-orphan-annie-curled, a combo-platter-no-real-sense curled. i personally have found it annoying. most women desire hair which they do not have – a different kind of hair – a different color – a different texture, thickness, bounce, volume. it is the way of this society.
instyle magazine did an entire month of articles on women and their hair. i read the initial article from 2018 and, frankly, found it somewhat entertaining. the most common uniting hair complaint is frizz, which, i must say, i have complained about a time or two. d has trouble understanding frizz as he is a non-frizz-haired guy (incidentally, with better hair than me – which doesn’t seem quite hair-fair). regardless, hair has become a tool of empowering for women, especially in this nation.
according to what i read, we can be flushed with excitement or nervous as all get-out, challenged beyond our perceived limits or drudging our way through the day – but, if our hair looks good, we feel good, no matter.
i wonder if the heron – in its elegant wisdom and intuition – has concerned itself with its feathers. or has it just simply concerned itself with its basic needs, its instinctual movements and rituals, its patterns and place in nature. is it thinking about its frizzy down feathers? i suspect not. compare that with the reported 81% of human women who feel more confident if their hair looks great.
according to the majority of human women – none of the hair products out there reeeeally work. everything promises to de-frizz, de-curl, celebrate the curl, straighten, give volume, grant sheen, untangle, combat thinning, retain moisture, eliminate split ends, make it bounce, make it stay still, give a hairstyle hold. but nope, none of it really works.
if you add perimenopause, menopause and post-menopause to the hair equation, you are faced with a variety pack of even more hair concerns. for me, that means that – despite all my deliberate blowdrying intentions for straightening my hair, the instant a hotter-than-hot hot flash swings by, i am frizzed. drippy hot, frizzed and curled – definitely not a jennifer aniston hair look.
“in order to cool their body temperature, great blue herons will partially extend and droop their wings and open their mouths while fluttering their throat muscles. much like dogs panting, this helps cool their body through evaporation. this behavior is called gular fluttering.”(nps.gov) the innate wisdom of the heron – gular fluttering. who knew?
so…if you see me – curly hair askew sneaking out from under a few straightened hairs trying to hold on to their straight – fluttering my throat muscles (is this synonymous with talking too much in humans???) – you will know i am post-yet-another-hot-flash and am channeling my internal great blue heron. please don’t comment on my hair.
there’s so much truth in this. the red wine. the adirondack chairs. the ‘what are you thinking about?’ the sky-gazing. the existential amazement. the mars and venus. the hot flash. yes, yes. so.much.truth. yup. uh-huh. nothin’ more to say here.
“as estrogen declines in perimenopause and menopause, appetite ramps up. … hormone weirdness can impact your sleep (night sweats, for example). insufficient sleep can further elevate sensations of hunger.” (gennev.com)
and this additional news:
“the decline of sleep-promoting hormones including estrogen and progesterone is one big reason for disrupted sleep. and the other symptoms of menopause—from mood swings and anxiety to night sweats—also contribute to sleep problems for women. production of another critical hormone for sleep—melatonin—also decreases with age, which can compound sleep problems for women during menopause and beyond.” (psychology today, m.j. breus, phd)
shocking, isn’t it? it makes you want to sign up, doesn’t it? huh?huh?
as one who is smack-dab in the middle of this estrogen/progesterone/post-peri-full-blown-meno fun, i know i am not alone. there is nothing like lying awake in the wee of the night, filled with swirling angst-filled thoughts and lists and no shut-eye, listening to david gently snoring and dogdog running in his sleep, blanket on-blanket off-blanket on, grateful-for-each-moment-crabby-as-all-get-out, melatonin-deprived and starving. i can’t count the vast number of bananas and bowls of cereal we have eaten smack-dab in the middle of the night.
“levels of the hunger-stimulating hormone ghrelin increase, a reason why many women find themselves frequently hungry during this phase.” (psychology today, m.j. breus, phd)
sisu sue swore by them. turtlenecks. she has them in every color, every kind of weave and fabric. she looks fabulous in them and wears adorable chic jackets over them. she is one cool and trendy lady and i adore her.
having already started the hot-flasharama-period of my life when we were working together, i would ask her how she could stand having a turtleneck on; it was (and mostly still is) out of my realm of imagination being able to wear a turtleneck and not ripping it off in the middle of -say- the choir room or the train to chicago or in the car while driving. this oh-so-wise treasured woman told me that someday i would understand.
THAT DAY HAS COME.
i look in the mirror, a few steps of days away from 59, and stare at (you might want to stop reading now) my NECK. what has HAPPENED? suddenly, my neck (and chin, for that matter) have become O-L-D. where has the time gone? where did my old neck go? and where did that new chin-under-my-chin come from?
my sweet momma, at 93, looked at me one day and said, “i looked in the mirror and (in a horrified voice) i saw an OLD woman.” “momma,” i reassured her, “at 93, you are an old woman, but you are a BEAUTIFUL old woman.” personally, i thought my momma was striking. every last wrinkle told a story. every last thing she saw as a flaw. but my words fell on deaf ears. she just stared back at me. probably feeling much the same as me. delusionally thinking that time would stand still in our necks and chins and -yup- everywhere else. time and menopause take their toll.
the next time you see me try not to stare at my neck (although i have likely set you up for that.) i may or may not be wearing a turtleneck. the ironic part is that a real turtle’s neck really does look a lot like mine. sheesh.
reverse threading 