And that’s why I’m supposed to cut down on my alcohol…
Cause it gives me hot flashes. And now, apparently… Night Terrors. Not just regular nightmares, but crazy-ass, finding out that Nate Berkus, in addition to being an interior designer, is the leader of a boy band who has people eviscerated when you discover that they are 100% auto-tuned, full-on NIGHT FREAKING TERRORS.
I had two drinks. Is my ability to handle my alcohol also being compromised by peri-menopause? (That would be incredibly sad, given my Scandinavian heritage.) Or is it because the second drink, “Oh, don’t worry, the ice is displacing the alcohol – it’s really only a double,” actually was a quadruple? Plus? Over Thanksgiving – to cope with the pinched nerve in my neck? I may have imbibed a bit to take the edge off. During the full course of the day, I might have had a couple of pina colada coolers and a couple of glasses of wine. And again – the hot flashes were like rocket liftoffs. One drink? I’m fine. More than one? You can BBQ on my torso.
And then there’s caffeine. Not only will it keep me up at night if I ingest it after noon, but waking up with the night sweats adds a certain – I was about to say je ne sais quoi, but I totally quoi – it’s just that I don’t have enough adjectives to adequately describe the sensations in a way that men will understand. Other women of a certain age get it. They know all about it. But most dudes? They have not one freaking clue as to how those hot flashes can turn you from rational wife and mother to slathering murderous wielder of words and weapons. My middle name during one of these spells could truly be ‘harangue’ – not necessarily at other people, but towards the universe in general. Men not in the know, pass it off as us being hormonal and ‘tut-tut’ us and give us patronizing little pats on the shoulder. Experienced husbands and partners know the drill. They duck and roll – find the safe spot in the house – don’t make eye contact – stay under the radar – hand you a bag of frozen peas to put on the back of your neck. They are the ones who know not to mock, at least not while you’re in the room… Mostly, methinks, so that one’s harangue doesn’t devolve into a crying jag that could rival Biblically proportioned floods.
So no caffeine or alcohol for me… not now. Most doctors will agree on that point anyhow. I’ll be smart – it’s for my own good. I anticipate quite a bender though, when I’ve actually made it to menopause.