I don’t want to venture into the realm of serious TMI, so let me put this delicately: When a lady can’t become a mommy anymore, certain things about her body change. Some of these changes are well-known to the general population, others kept quiet among the crone sisterhood, and still others? Let me put it this way: One day a lady-who-can’t-become-a-mommy-anymore might find herself madly googling “head sweat after 50.” I’m not talking about hot flashes, I’m talking about one day realizing all your schvitz plumbing appears to have been rerouted to your scalp.
It’s very strange. Also not strange. There are medical conditions that can cause this, but I don’t think any apply to me, and besides, when I read medical advice that advises treating cranial hyperhidrosis by avoiding spicy foods and garlic, frankly I’d rather wear a Richard Simmons headband all day. And I don’t walk around dripping, but when I exercise, I’m a veritable sprinkler.
So the other day I was scheduled to give blood. The bloodmobile comes to my gym every major holiday, and I usually roll up a sleeve. I scheduled my appointment at 10:15 and arrived at 9. Lifted weights for an hour, rinsed my face, combed my soaking hair and checked in.
A large male LPN took me aside and asked if I’d just “worked out hard.” Not really, but yeah, I know, I look pretty wrung out. I’m fine. I’m just sweaty. I ate a good breakfast and drank a quart of water this morning, and I’ve never had so much as a wobble after a blood donation. Seriously. Find me a cot and let’s do this.
They rejected me. Rejected! For sweatiness. The LPN said they’d had someone else who arrived in similar dampness “go down” at the last drive, and I guess they didn’t want another one. I looked at him and wondered whether he wanted to hear what happens to a lady when she can’t become a mommy, and decided instead to go quietly.
And this is what my life has become: Being sweat-rejected was the highlight of my holiday weekend. OK, no it wasn’t. We went to the jazz festival Saturday to see Kate’s bass teacher get a big award, along with Dave Brubeck, who unfortunately couldn’t accept. I made steak tacos with fire-roasted salsa and guacamole, all homemade, all delish. I woke myself up at 6 a.m. by rubbing my eyes, my hands still carrying some capsaicin. Rode my bike hard for 30 miles or so. Thoroughly enjoyed the end of what’s been a great summer. In fact, I’m sorta looking forward to fall — new projects, new shoes, long sleeves.
I will miss these awesome peaches, though. Who wouldn’t?
Read this. Commit to memory. Follow its advice. And never risk instilling narcolepsy in your next meeting or memo.
I know this was Diana Nyad’s near-lifelong dream and all, and congratulations to her, but the pictures of her afterward make me wonder why.
So, happy new year to all. School starts today, and my car’s check-engine light went on. Fingers crossed, because we’re well into the nickel-and-dime years with this girl.