We are the sisterhood of the Hot Flash. In 1979, when we all drove around in our mama’s Ford Granadas, singing “Cause I’m hot blooded. Check it and see” we had no idea of what was to come.
You’ll recognize us by the contents of our purses. A bottle of cold water, a fan, in extreme cases, a polar pack fresh out of the freezer to press against our flushed cheeks. We’re the ones begging for the air conditioner to be turned down. We’re the ones who are sometimes flooded with tooth-grinding frustration at seemingly small infractions (like tailgating cars or a toilet seat left up in the dark of night). Night sweats? We got em. It makes us whip covers on and off with the speed of a downhill skier. We are going through The Change.
When I was a young girl and still bounced like a filly across the long, luxurious hours of my youth, I didn’t pay much attention to ladies who were going through The Change. When hormones started to shift for some of my close family members, it became a source of amusement. They would let out a heavy sigh and exclaim “Whoooooo, Hot Flash!” Oh, it was funny then. But let me tell you, nobody’s laughing now.
Hot Flashes (also called “My own personal summer” by many ladies that I know) are no joke. I’ve heard different accounts from different people. Some of them say the heat starts at the base of their necks. Some people say it runs down their legs or sweats their palms. Scalps grow wet with perspiration. Faces flush and breathing quickens. It’s not pretty.
There is only one thing be done when a Hot Flash hits. Cool down immediately. This involves removing outer layers, even shoes and socks when a particularly bad one hits. Next comes the fanning – with anything at hand. A magazine, a power bill, a crinkled Chick Filet napkin will do, so long as it stirs the air.
We have, in our yard, a hard pear tree. It’s grown there for at least two generations and this time of year, its boughs are drooped with the weight of the fruit on it. The tree produces pears that are knotty and blotchy and the skin is hard to peel, but inside is a treasure – a white, crisp fruit, bursting with pear-y goodness. This year we’ve been blessed with a bumper crop and they need picking frequently, so after our morning walk I tackled the tree.
It was a cool morning so I put on a sweatshirt and took a sturdy basket for the harvest. The dogs followed me. They love pears almost as much as they love bacon, but oddly won’t eat them unless I pull the fruit fresh off the tree. But once they realized I wasn’t picking for them, they found a sunny patch and went down for a nap.
The pears filled the basket up quickly as I cleared off the easy low-hanging fruit. Then I looked up and saw the big pears that dangled just out of reach. I clamored up on top of a log (don’t worry, I did my tai chi stretches so if I fell I wouldn’t break a hip) and commenced to picking. But I discovered that I was going to have to drop the fruit to the ground (possibly bruising it). I wished for a pick sack. Instead, I turned my sweatshirt around backwards, leaving the hood on the front to fill with fruit (like a kangaroo pouch, if you need a visual).
Well, halfway up the pear tree, in the midst of this picking frenzy, I was overcome by a strange feeling – heat trickling up the back of my neck. I recognized immediately the beginnings of a Hot Flash.
At top speed, I clamored down off the log. The heat was starting to come out of my ears, like smoke out of a dragon. I sat down and tried to cool down. The sweatshirt was the first to go. The pears in the hood flew everywhere. I fanned myself with my hands, hoping it would pass quickly. I exclaimed, “Whoooooo! Hot Flash!”
Eventually, but not before my scalp prickled up with a fine sheen of sweat, I started to cool down. I closed my eyes and the coolness of the morning calmed me so I sat and I stretched and I sighed, watching the world slowly turn around me.
It was too early for the hornets to be out, but clouds of fruit flies buzzed around the windfall fruit like pepper-grain fairies. The wrens had discovered us so they were hopping and fussing from limb to limb. I could hear the hum of the air conditioner chugging it’s way through pre-Florence humidity. The wind coming in from the east was stirring the wind chime, heralding the slow approach of the distant storm.
Eventually, I cooled off enough, so I picked up the last of the pears and hauled the heavy basket back up to the house. As I walked, I felt that familiar heat start to gather again at the back of my neck, making me sing the anthem of our youth. “Cause I’m Hot Blooded. Check it and see. I’ve got a fever of 103. Cause I’m Hot Blooded. I’m Hot Blooded.”
And how.