The Pajama Games: Like the Hunger Games, Only Sweatier

Last night I changed my pajamas 3 times. Three damn times! What the hell is that?

If you, like me, are in menopause, or the beginnings of menopause, or in some middle hell-hole surrounding any part of EFFING MENOPAUSE, you probably know what I am talking about. Waking up in the middle of the night feeling like the flames of unholy hell are lapping at your insides. Dripping sweat as if you just went nine rounds with the welterweight champ only to have it end in a split decision. Drenched. It's disgusting, frankly, and it makes me crazy.

The fact that I sweat at night is ironic, since during the day I am almost always freezing cold. My husband frequently wonders aloud if I have any blood at all circulating through my body. My hands are usually like icicles, and if you were to touch me on any given day, you could be forgiven for assuming that I am a vampire.

The irony does not stop there. I have trouble sleeping. My mind tends to go into overdrive at night, and I am often lying awake, obsessively worrying about things I can not possibly do anything about at 3 am. I worry about my children, my husband, our dogs, the expense of college, if we are out of peanut butter, if Pluto is really a planet; my middle of the night worrying knows no bounds.  When I do fall asleep, it is precious and I adore it, and you really don't want to wake me up. Did you hear that, menopause? You don't want to wake me up! Apparently you didn't hear it, because you wake me up all the damn time with the night sweats! I swear to god, menopause, you are SUCH AN A**HOLE!

So I wake up, sweaty and annoyed, and have to drag my dripping self into my closet to get new PJs on. I love my PJs. I love them like some women love shoes, and I treat them with a reverence that most would consider unusual. They are cozy, comfortable friends that I turn to at the end of the day because I know they will wrap me in deliciousness and soothe me without fail. My PJs are not to be trifled with and discarded on the floor in the dark. But that is what I do when menopause makes me sweat and wake up and maybe cry a little! I am mean to my PJs because of menopause, and that's not right! Do you hear me, menopause? It's not right!

Sometimes, and this makes me so angry it's almost comical, if I have had my hair colored that day, I sweat in color! I pay an unholy amount of money to cover my grey laugh hairs, only to have some of the color drip off my hair onto my lovely Irish linen pillow cases that can only be replaced with a costly return trip to County Kerry! Can you hear the frantic quality to my typing now? My typing voice has gone up at least two octaves. So if you just picture a sweaty insane person thrashing wildly about in her closet in the middle of the night, that's me. I am the Tasmanian Devil of perimenopausal women.

Really, all this means is that menopause is a big jerk, which we already knew. It makes us sweaty, and tired and crabby. It gives us extra laundry to do.

Wait a minute...maybe I'm having some menopause-related confusion. Am I talking about menopause, or my children?

This article originally appeared at Call The Midlife.

  

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