“Is it hot in here or is it just me?” I ask my daughter, hoping she’s going to tell me that it is, in fact, NOT me and it is actually 279 degrees in the house.
“Nooooo, it’s YOU!” she whines back, without ever looking up from her phone to make sure that I’m not actually on fire.
My feet feel like I’m standing on hot coals, so I pull off my socks and throw them at her. She gives me a look like I just hit her with a dead rat, rolls her eyes and continues to text.
“What is there to text about at 6:45 in the morning?” I ask her. She gives me a sideways glance and says, “Nothing.”
“Oh, silly me,” I mumble.
We drive to school with the air conditioner on and my window down. She complains the entire ride that she’s freezing, while I’m waiting to see flames shooting out of the top of my head. I apologize as I wipe the sweat off my upper lip.
I drop her off and drive home with all the windows open and the air conditioner on full blast. It’s a cold autumn morning and I feel as though I’m standing at the threshold of hell.
As the morning goes by, I peel off more and more of my clothes and end up in a t-shirt and shorts. It’s cold and gray and 52 degrees outside and I look like I’m going to the beach. I am locked in the hot, sweaty grip of menopause and not even an ice bath on top of a glacier in the middle of a snow storm can cool me down.
I clean the pig pen and feed the goats and donkeys, all the while guzzling down ice water to keep myself from having a case of spontaneous human combustion.
There’s work that needs to be done in the garden, but my t-shirt now feels like I’m wearing nine layers of wool sweaters. The temperature has warmed up to 64 degrees, but that’s about 30 degrees too hot for me. “Snow! Why the h*ll can’t it SNOW!” I scream in my head.
I need more ice water, so I drag my drenched body to the house. My t-shirt and shorts have now become too much to bear and I decide I need something even lighter, but don’t think it’s a good idea to garden in my bra and underwear. I trot into the bedroom and rip off my clothes, because at this point I feel like I’m wearing a napalm jumpsuit. In the throws of heatstroke insanity, I round the corner to raid my daughter’s closet for something, ANYTHING, without sleeves or a lot of material.
And there he was…
Standing at the backdoor…
A door made ENTIRELY of glass…
The FedEx guy.
Our eyes meet. I panic. He panics. I spin around so fast I almost crash into the wall.
“JUST LEAVE IT!” I scream from around the corner.
“I can’t,” he yells back. “It needs a signature.”
“Son of a b*tch!” I curse out loud. “Damn new iPhone!!”
I throw on my sweaty, pig stink clothes and proceed to do a walk of shame to the door. I sign for the package and mumble “thanks,” never making eye contact.
“No, thank YOU,” he says with a smile.