A Blog by Gail Cushman
Hot to Trot
I am three-quarters of a century old and still having hot flashes, egad, do they ever stop? And why couldn’t our Creator have made cold flashes instead? They would be a lot easier to handle. I could just throw on a sweatshirt or wrap myself up with an old blanket and I’d feel better in no time at all. But no, I have hot flashes, and they cause me to do just the opposite. Remember my ironing gig?
The word flash is a cool word and conjures up all kinds of fun things. It is used in a lot of ways, like a flash bulb on one of those ancient cameras that did nothing except take pictures. Bummer. In those days, cameras took pictures, didn’t have the ability to call someone, and didn’t need a password (don’t get me started on passwords). Flashbulbs were actually small bulbs that you had to snap into a camera before you took an indoor picture. And the subject couldn’t see for several seconds, even minutes because it was so bright.
And then there are the flashes in the eye, sort of precursor of cataracts, as I understand it. I’ve had a few of those, one time they were stars, another time zigzags, which the doc said was normal, but how many people really see stars and zig-zaggy lines like lightning bolts when cooking eggs? Flashy eyes are not normal in any sense of the word. How about a flash-in-the-pan? It usually means a quick success, followed by nothingness, but in 1700’s it meant a gun that misfired, as I understand it. I’ve known a few flash-in-the-pan types, always fun, until they fizzle. My friend Emily suggested I write about brain flashes, but they, too, mystify me because I can’t seem to retain my brain flashes. Once in a while, I get a mind-popping idea, one that will change the world, and poof! It’s gone. I don’t know where it went, maybe into some fold in the brain, but dang, it’s gone, never to reappear and the world won’t be saved.
Back to hot flashes, they start when you are 40ish and end when you are dead. I think. I hope. I would hate to be in the grave and have sweat pouring out my pores, if you know what I mean. I finally asked Cowboy Bob if he had any thoughts about hot flashes. He turned red and began to kick the dirt, and said, “I don’t have any idea, but I’ve got work to do. I’ve gotta change the air in Big Red’s tires.” So, I guess I’m out of luck and will continue with the cold showers and buckets of ice water.
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