I fling off what feels like 20-ton covers and worry that a heat-sensing missile might re-direct itself from the other side of the world and head straight for my sweat-drenched body. I absently thank the darkness for I know my image right now is far from lovely.
When I mention “night sweats” I don’t mean the dewy moisture we discreetly blot with a tissue on a warm summer day. I’m talking about the drenching kind of sweat that a 300-pound Sumo wrestler might experience if left in a dry sauna for 30 minutes. I’m embarrassed to say that I sleep on a large, soft, absorbent beach towel these days in order to prevent the laundering of sheets on a daily basis.
As my snoring husband sleeps peacefully beside me I curse the fact men don’t experience this oh-so-ugly phenomenon.
Without warning, my body suddenly shivers as the ceiling fan does the job for which it was created. As I drift off I imagine a menopausal woman drafting the first diagram for the slowly whirling blades above me. She’s doing this at 3:13 a.m., of course.
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