Last night while we were sitting on the sofa, tv on, surfing the web, and reading magazines my husband announces that he was having a hot flash.
I did snicker under my breath.
He proceeded to take off his bathrobe and continued sitting on the sofa.
I remained silent.
Then he says, “Honey, I’m really having a hot flash.”
Ok, the man says he’s having a hot flash, in his mind, it’s a hot flash.
I knew better.
“Baby, I know, I’m sorry you’re having a hot flash.” What could I say?
He sat up and said, “NO, I mean a real hot flash…. I’m actually starting to sweat.”
I had a Cheshire Cat on my face, no lie. I didn’t tell him of course that I have them – way worse – and some days I think I’m going to explode from all the heat.
The perspiration that runs down my back and beads of sweat on my forehead, didn’t tell him about those either.
He got up off the sofa and walked away to air out his body. I know I should’ve been compassionate and had a violin playing in the back ground but GIVE ME A FLIPPING BREAK!
But in all honesty, I don’t have them every single day, and some weeks I go without. But when they start back up again, my God, they come with a vengeance.
I think the worst hot flash I ever had was at night, naturally, I was sleeping (which is a feat all on its own) and got hot. Kicked off the covers. Still wasn’t happening. Took off my pajamas. Still no help. Got up off the bed and got a towel – the bed was wet in the perfect imprint of my body. Eventually I got cold again; I haven’t had one THAT bad since.
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