In the Soup

When I was in the throes of perimenopause, I couldn’t eat hot soup. Any soup, no matter how delicious, precipitated a hot flash. Sweaty heat would radiate from my neck to my scalp and then head south.

It was a sad time for me. One of my favorite food groups is soup.

I wrote an essay about those hot flashes back then; lucky for you, it didn’t appear in these pages. I didn’t have this gig yet, so you were spared from reading what happened in and to my body while I was in the throes of perimenopause.

I did bring that essay to the writing group I’ve belonged to for over 10 years. We’re all women, although every so often a guy will join. They never last long. Probably because of the perimenopause essays.

I’m the baby of the group, and I benefit from these women’s knowledge and wisdom. But we have a rule: What’s said in the writing group stays in the writing group.

I’m going to break that rule now.

(Kidding! I’d never. But you should have seen their faces when they read that sentence in the first draft of this column!)

Back when the ladies read my perimenopause essay, we discussed its awkward transitions and grammatical shortcomings. After, I asked my wise friends, “Surely, the hot flashes will end once I get through menopause?”

The ladies glanced at each other. They turned to me with their heads tilted. One friend patted my hand, and said, “No. The hot flashes will never end. And don’t call us Shirley.”

I’ll never forget that day, my naiveté, their pitied expressions, or the “Airplane!” movie reference. It was like they had told this Jewish girl there really was a Santa Claus, and if I only had the chance to sit on his lap, I would’ve gotten my long-coveted Barbie Dreamhouse — the one with the elevator.

What we call menopause actually has three stages. Perimenopause occurs as a woman’s reproductive cycle winds down. Menopause is the moment her reproductive system has stopped, meaning she has gone 12 months without menstruating. Post-menopause is the stage after the woman’s cycle has ended.

Any upper-middle-aged woman will tell you that no matter which stage, the symptoms are pretty much the same. And the list of symptoms is long. I counted 49 on one website alone, including … ummm … forgetfulness.

Doctors, Instagram and the “Today” show’s Jenna Bush will differ on the duration of perimenopause. It could be two years. It could be 10. We may never know, since medical research, especially for women, is frowned upon.

Menopause itself lasts for 20 seconds. That’s the amount of time it takes to tell your doctor you haven’t had your period for a year.

Post-menopause begins after that 20-second conversation. And it lasts for the rest of your life. Forever. In perpetuity. Ad infinitum.

Which is why one of the 49 symptoms is rage.

I’ve gone through perimenopause and menopause. Now I’m hyper-focused on what’s happening in and to my body, since I’m in the throes of post-menopause. Unfortunately, you’re about to be, too.

Sorry.

But we can make it fun! Let’s start calling people at this stage of life “posties.”

Regrettably, this piece doesn’t have enough room to go through all 49 of my postie symptoms. No worries, I can tackle them in my next 48 columns.

Today, we’ll focus on one symptom: the hot flash. During perimenopause, my hot flashes were just that, a flash. In my postie era, the flash has become a constant condition. It’s as if my postie internal thermostat looked at my perimenopausal hot flashes and said, “Hold my warm beer!”

I’m hot all the time. For example, after I recently got my hair styled at noon before a 4 p.m. wedding, I had to sit completely still for four hours to avoid an expensive head of frizz. My postie neck-furnace turns my hair follicles into a tropical microclimate.

I can only sleep with a ceiling fan on in a 67-degree room. Even so, I wake up feeling like I’ve slept in a bowl of hot borscht.

Meanwhile poor Mr. Hockey goes to bed shivering. When he asks to turn up the heat, I react like my father did during the 1970s energy crisis: “Put on a sweater!”

The kitchen is worse. The stove and oven contribute to my eternal internal flame. As does the workout I get from retracing my steps when I can’t remember why I’m standing in front of the dishwasher. And if I eat tomato soup in the kitchen, I’m cooked.

You know the saying, “If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen”? It was coined by a postie.

And it was a cry for help.

Am I doomed to living on gazpacho and cold borscht forever? In perpetuity? Ad infinitum?

No, because there’s never been a better time to be a postie. Menopause is everywhere. We posties can look for advice from our doctors, Instagram, and Jenna Bush. Even better, I have my wise writing sisters to help me.

And I plan to pay it forward. Someday, I’ll be the oldest postie in the writing group. When a newly upper-middle-aged woman asks, “Surely, these hot flashes will end when I get through menopause?”

I’ll tilt my head, pat her hand, and reply, “No. The hot flashes will never end. And don’t call me Shirley.”