For a big part of my life I have anticipated menopause. I mean, anticipated as in looked forward to. Sound strange? Well, it wouldn’t if you knew how cold I’ve been most of my life.
But I had hope for brighter days. I knew that someday, in the not-too-distant future, menopause would hit and I would finally find some relief. I imagined that in my mature years I would be warm and toasty–courtesy of hot flashes.
I waited. And waited and waited and waited. I will be fifty-seven years old this coming Sunday, March 1. I am still waiting. Oh, I am finally in menopause, I think. Perhaps not finished but at the very least near to it.
But instead of hot flashes do you know what I got? Cold flashes!
Oh yeah, you didn’t know cold flashes existed, did you? Neither did I! And I am pretty mad about it. What a lousy way to be greeted by a long-awaited day! What a cruel dashing of hopes!
And somebody might have warned me. Surely some older woman knew about this! Maybe I would have been trying to put on some weight in preparation if only I had known.
When I refer to cold flashes, I am not talking about being a little chilly. I’m not even talking about bone-chilling cold. No, no, no. I’m telling you that I am like an iceberg. The cold I experience is organ-chilling cold. I feel like a corpse ready for the casket.
“Get ready for the hot flashes,” my older friends told me. “Oh, you’ll be hot enough pretty soon,” they warned when I whined about being cold.
Hot flashes, my eye! Don’t get your hopes up, ladies!