I Am One Hot Mess

I think my hot flashes are almost over. My husband only refers to sleeping with an oven a few times a week. It wasn't so bad when we lived up north in the cold. In Florida, our bedroom turns into the tropics when I heat up. He actually says I burn him at night. I think he might be exaggerating, but even the dogs sleep on his side of the bed. Once we all got tangled up in the covers and I was like a mummy in the morning: Husband on one side, two dogs on the other. I thought for sure I’d shrivel up and die from dehydration before breakfast.

Sleep is not a problem. My new bio-identical hormones are starting to congregate in my cells. My biggest challenge in this almost post-menopausal time is the inability to concentrate. In fact, I can barely remember to take those lovely little hormones daily.

In addition to being forgetful, I am also living with a very fast-paced brain in my little slow-paced body. Well, to be honest, it's not that little. I'm trusting the hormones to correct that soon. I am also hoping they will whiten my teeth, erase my wrinkles, tone my thighs, and sprout a money tree in my back pocket. See what I mean? I was telling you I’m forgetful and the next thing I know my mind has jumped to a money tree in my pocket!

Just last week, I went shopping for a new bathing suit. I found the perfect halter-topped black suit which could also double as a sundress. It beautifully flowed over my hips, and I didn’t even have to hold my stomach in. What a great find! When I got home, I modeled my new suit for my husband. I twirled around the family room so he could see how it flowed. This was possibly the best bathing suit of my entire life! I even put on sandals and hoop earrings to show him the sundress look. He agreed. "Great suit!"

It wasn't until I went to put it in my closet that I noticed the tag, "Maternity by The Bay." AGHHH!!! I’d accidentally purchased a maternity bathing suit - and worse yet, it fit PERFECTLY!

Being the optimist that I am, I found I could wear this beauty. In fact, as I was walking to the beach, I reveled in the pouch of fabric that an eight-months pregnant woman would fill out naturally. It felt like an empty nest for my uterus. I realized I could probably fill that pouch with suntan lotion, my Kindle, a beach towel, and very possibly two small beach chairs. I might even have room for a cold beverage, but not too chilled. I'd be like a sunbathing kangaroo!

I can wear that suit and I can laugh about it now. The mix up did get my attention, though. I realized it was time to slow down. My husband says I need to reduce my mental speed from 125 mph to 25 mph. At least that's what I think he said. He talks way too slow for me, and I was busy making mental notes of things I had to do that day. I just agreed with him when he finished and said, “That makes perfect sense. I’ll definitely slow down.”

The very next morning, I had decaf coffee to start me in my new slow mode.

I went for my annual physical. While the nurse entered my blood pressure on my chart, she asked my age. I had to think for a minute, reducing my mental mph, and I told her, "Thirty-six or thirty-eight, depending." I smiled at her, proud that for a moment my mind was working in slow-mo.

She gave me blank stare and asked, "Well, which is it? Are you thirty-seven?"

I was a bit confused by that question, so I repeated my answer. "No! Thirty-six or thirty-eight, depending."

"Depending on what?" She was barking at me impatiently now. I took a breath and was about to explain that different manufacturers have different fits. That's when I realized that I'd given her my bra size and not my age!

This morning was the final straw though. It was a busy morning and I remembered that I needed a dentist appointment. I dug out my address book, found a number, and proceeded to call my gynecologist. I said, "I need to come in right away. I have cavity that is growing and needs to be filled." The receptionist could barely speak for laughing uncontrollably.

I didn't see the humor, so I added, "This is serious. I could need a root canal!"

Now she was snorting in my ear. I was just ready to recommend a compounding shop for her hormones when she said, giggling, "Oh, Anne, you've called the gynecologist, not the dentist."

Can you say 150 mental mph? My mind is like a NASCAR track.

My husband asked, "Why don’t you just make a list and do one thing at a time slowly?"

"I did that already. There are papers in the kitchen and the living room with my things to do today. There might be a few in the family room, too."

"I meant on one single sheet of paper, in one place. Do it slowly," he counseled patiently.

"Slowly? I’d never get anything done! The faster I go, the more I can accomplish in a day."

"Yes, like making a dentist appointment with your gynecologist? Telling the nurse you're only as old as your chest?"

"I don’t have time for this conversation. I’m getting behind my schedule," I complained.

"There, do you see what I mean?" he moaned. "You're always in a rush!" He rolled his eyes and asked me to make him a drink.

"Can’t do it right now," I told him. "I have to run to Wachovia Bank. I have to make a deposit."

"That’s great," he said. "But our account is at Bank of America."

Then he shook his head. "I’ll make my own drink!"

This post originally appeared at www.annebardsley.com.

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