I'm not going to talk about the miserable dog days we're having here. My friend Cheryl over at Material World beat me to it, and I've already acknowledged it and vowed not to copy her. Sheesh.
But I will go so far as to say that the heat outside isn't helping my unpredictable internal temperature situation. I'm always hot--except when I'm cold. Sometimes, I'm absolutely oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-have-a-stroke, just about to burn up.
Except, that is, when I'm cold.
Maybe back when Rosie was on The View, you noticed she or Joy claiming to have a hot flash, and then fanning the air with their little ineffectual prompt cards. I've seen a hot flash from the inside out, and you can't prove by me that either one of them has more than a nodding acquaintance with such an event. Those people didn't look even a little bit uncomfortable.
A woman in the throes of a genuine hot flash will (1) notify everyone within shouting distance, (2) disrobe to the degree possible, and (3) find a way to truly generate some cold air around her head. Social mores, business etiquette, and Al Gore be damned. The people I work with have seen more of my altogether than anyone I was ever married to.
Which is why I keep my thermostat set at 68 degrees and a sweater close at hand. When I'm a normal, functioning human being, I wear the sweater. When I start feeling like my head is on fire, I drop the sweater where I stand.
After I leave each day for work, Muffin Uptown (who is staying with me for the month of August) goes through the house, picking up and putting away, and returns my sweater to the closet. After three days of searching beneath and between the couch cushions and all around on the computer chair, I finally thought to ask if she'd seen it.
The expression on her face compelled me to try and explain, especially since I was daily subjecting her to possible hypothermia. She smiled at me--blue lips and all.
"Don't worry about it Mom," she said. "Whatever makes you not complain."
photo, Zern Liew