Night Sweats

No…we are not talking about waking up from your sleep and needing to throw the covers off cause you are hot.

We are not talking about a moist upper lip one in a while.

We are talking about waking up and rolling over to cold sweat pouring down your neck, soaked tank top and wet hair.

Can’t even blame it on menopause or pre-menopause either, which has been confirmed via $118 worth of LabCorp magic. Last night was the worst I have had in a while…my sheets were actually wet! Uncomfortable, embarrassed and definitely at the end of my rope in frustration. So I fixed a glass of ice water and web md’d this shit. Turns out there are several contributors to “The Sweats”.

Anxiety, drug addiction and sleep apnea all add gas to the internal hell fire. Rather than focus on eliminating those, I chose to focus on Pheochromocytoma, Osteomyelitis and Autonomic neuropathy..


No wonder they say that the internet does not make you a doctor. I think I will just go back to bed.

Marketing Geniuses

My weight, the number that is, does not matter to me.  I am sure I have added and gained regularly, but I have bought the same size clothes for 3 years.  As long as the number on my jeans does not increase, I am all good.  The only time I see a scale is when I go to the doctor.  We all know that the ONLY weight that can be recorded is first thing in the morning, after you pee…BUTT NAKED.  There is no way the doctor’s scale correct, so I don’t even bother looking.  I don’t have room in my day for such useless knowledge 🙂

I bought some jeans at Old Navy a month or so ago…and they felt kinda big.  I thought it would be no big deal after I washed them and put on a belt.  Unfortunately, to keep them in place required the belt to be so tight across my waist that it was the only thing that stayed in place.  The jeans still slipped down and hang by the loops.  Since we have already discussed my hell fire “condition”; I am sure you can imagine after a day at work, it looks like I got chub rub from hula hooping.

So I decided to grab a pair in a size smaller.  Low and behold….they fit much better.  Sweet mother of God.  I don’t care if this is a world wide marketing ploy… I have quite a skip in my step just thinking about how long it has been since I have seen this number on denim.


White Hot Intensity of the Sun

When I turned 40, I was in Hawaii with 17 of my favorite people.  It thought it was the best vacation I have ever had. That is until I came home; and realized I brought the Hawaiian heat with me.  Since the moment the wheels touched the landing strip, I have been on fire.  Intensified with any activity…including breathing.

It wasn’t SO bad the first few months.  I re-discovered my love of dresses.  Which meant I could wear just one article and clothing; allowing for maximum air flow.  I also felt sexy as fuck, so it was a win win.

When one of the best jobs I had ever had came to an end, I ended up at the bottom of the employment pit and worked in a machine shop for the next 11 months.  To my horror, there were no open toe shoes allowed on the plant floor.  Since my body thermostat is in my big toe, this happened to be one of the few tricks that worked for self air-conditioning.   We also had no paging or instant messaging on the property so I was constantly on the move; hitting 10K by lunch.  Soon I was limited to only wearing black shirts because my pits looked like they were sobbing.  Like every sweat gland just got dumped.

Thankfully, before I lost any more bras to underwire rust, they asked me to please not return to work.  My first thought was not one of “Oh shit I just got fired!” but “I never have to spend another minute in this sweat shop!”.  I made it back to the world of air-conditioning.  Sun-dresses and sandals, including December.  It is heaven 🙂

Because the universe continues to require payment for all the shit I got away with in my 20’s, the dial has turned up.  I am confident I am now running at a continuous 102 degrees.  I perspire a bit on my back just going to the kitchen to refill my coffee; and don’t even get me started on the workout worthy sweat that I get refilling the office snacks.  My desk fan is less than 10 inches from my body at all times; and turned to high so I look like I am at a photo shoot.

We got a down comforter so I could sleep with the window open and not turn Hubz into a Popsicle. I have a piece of tissue covering me and I still wake up to a cup of sweat under my tits. I spray dry antiperspirants on my like it was bug repellent and threaten to wear a bikini to work if any one touches the thermostat.

If this is just the beginning of menopause, I’m screwed.