Is it me or is it hot in here?
I was asking that question months before the 103-degree heat showed up.
To be sure, it’s me. (Actually, it’s I.)
One would think I’d have figured out by now that, at the moment the temperature in the room, in the car, in church, in a meeting, even at the podium, suddenly and without warning soars to a dangerous high, it’s me. But still I ask.
The bed bursts into flames at exactly 3:30 every morning. Every evening, simply sitting down to dinner triggers onset of SPP, or sudden projectile perspiration. Is it me or is it hot in here?
Recently, as I walked red-faced into my local GNC store, dripping on the counter, a young man smiled pitifully and walked me over to the women’s herbal products, where he made some helpful recommendations. Three weeks later, I’m still a raging inferno of Colorado proportions.
Yesterday, I went to the dollar store to find one of those handheld fans I swore I’d never carry. I bought one in every color. After all, mustn’t one’s peacock-embroidered purse fan always match her shoes?
Sisters, if that fashion trend doesn’t strike your fancy, how about this: When the devil strikes, I take a washcloth from the stack in the refrigerator, drape it around my neck and attach it with a chip clip. For women our age, it’s the new black. Look for it on the cover of More magazine.
But, after losing power again yesterday, something struck me. Without juice, it’s hard to tell time.
I remembered that we received six clocks—none electric—as wedding gifts 27 years ago. It was comforting to rediscover that some if not most of those are still around. Then I remembered the trusty timepiece my husband brought into our marriage, a relic from the 1950s, when his father sold shoes for a living.
Word Nymph 