Who Turned on the Blast Furnace

It’s 9:30pm, it’s barely dark, I’m wearing long sleeved cotton pj’s, socks, carrying a hand towel, it’s 44 degrees and the fan is blowing on high facing the bed. I know it sounds like a weird remix from The Blues Brothers, but welcome to Peri menopause.

It’s 9:30 because I am exhausted and plan my whole evening around my face hitting the pillow. The pj’s, not sexy but utilitarian. Someone needs to invent a pair made of that wicking material. Socks, because my feet are freezing… for now. They will eventually come off and join the others in the sock holding facility that is under my sheets. Now, the hand towel is the most important accessory in the nighttime ensemble. It gets shoved between my boobs to keep them separate and absorb the night sweat. I know, I’ve taken “hot” to a whole new level.

As I settle in for a good night’s sleep, I yell goodnight and I love you to my husband who is way across the California King. I notice he is wearing a hoodie.  Meanwhile, someone has apparently turned on the blast furnace. Thank goodness I have the oscillating fan set on high three inches from my face.

I drift off to sleep, 17 pillows strategically placed between my knees, behind my back and under my neck, dreaming of the days when I just rolled into bed naked, needing only a few hours of shut eye to fully function, crawling all over my husband like a jungle gym. With this comes a peaceful smile of being thankful I don’t have to keep that up. I slide my foot over to that man who is snoring like a lumberjack and a few hairs coming out of his ears, who is equally as content.

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