this year, I am trying much harder to enjoy the fall.
I drank some pumpkin spice creamer in my coffee. It was disgusting, but I think that I see the appeal. Not the appeal of pumpkin spice in coffee but of fall, autumn, ugh….the backend of the year.
Let me be completely upfront about this attempt at a change of heart.
This is not simply because of the wisdom of the age, or that I all of a sudden woke up and enjoyed wearing layers…and layers…and…binding my feet in socks, the only thing fun about that is the extent of offensiveness I can wear on my feet.
No, it is…menopause.
I have, honestly, loved my menopause. Hot flashes and night sweats and wearing as little as possible with the excuse of discomfort. I like being warm. I love being warm, and hot flashes are like Apollo exploded within my bloodstream and his sunshine is burning me from the inside out.
But then…this last Summer happened.
A shit ton of things happened this last Summer, but guess what else happened…my fucking hot flashes became terrible. Absolutely miserable. My fucking face was turning red and let me just remind you, I do not blush. I do not flush like some teenage coquette with the quarterback. No.
But every hour I was flaming up hotter than the fantasies that I have about Brad Pitt eating nachos with his fingers.
So this last Summer pushed me into the old age temperature regulator has broken down phase of life, and you’d better believe I’m having words with the great fucking beyond.
But until they agree to my terms, I will do my darnedest to still hate the chill in the air, to act as if the flush in my face is due to the cold, to dramatize my whining over missing the warmer weather.