Women’s lives are like a video game, progressing through increasingly tough levels, each packed with its own set of trials—from teenage angst to the adulting saga, and then there’s pregnancy and childbirth. You leap from one phase to the next, convinced each is the peak of hardship. You endure pains you never imagined possible, yet you soldier on, chin up. You survive childbirth and think, “That’s it, I’m invincible now.” But, oh, wait until you hit the Golden Age—you’re in for quite the shock.
This level throws up brand new challenges, things you’ve never faced before. Take, for example, my personal favorite: hot flashes—Mother Nature’s snarky reminder of your naivete. Thought childbirth was tough? Buckle up, you’re on another wild ride.
Let me take you back to when I first encountered these spontaneous infernos. Hot flashes can strike anytime, anywhere, any season, popping up like that unannounced guest who neither calls nor texts but just turns up at your doorstep.
I was 47 when the fun began. Always the one swaddled in scarves and coats, perpetually cold. Then, one fateful day en route to the post office, reality hit me—literally.
Closing my car trunk, I was suddenly swamped by a tsunami of heat. Sweat cascaded from my face and underarms as though I’d sprinted a marathon, when in fact, I’d barely shuffled a few steps. Dashing back to my car for refuge, I found, in my infinite wisdom, that I’d locked the keys inside. The fury that ignited within me was, frankly, spectacular. I was moments away from stripping right there in the parking lot, ready to give passersby a free, unforgettable spectacle. But instead, I opted for the next best thing: I called my husband, mid-scream.
So there I was, shrieking into the phone for him to come rescue me. He, clueless about my meltdown over a locked car, left me no choice but to wait for the spare keys. Meanwhile, I sat on the curb, fanning myself with my dress, looking as though I’d just fled a sauna, while everyone else paraded by in their cozy jackets, scarves, and hats, casting “Is she okay or should we call someone?” glances my way. If only they knew. I wasn’t just hot—I was an oven in human form. Perhaps I should’ve dialed the fire department instead; they would have at least brought hoses to save me from spontaneous combustion.
And that was merely the debut of many hot flashes, those delightful little surprises that crash your party, no matter the climate. What a blessing, indeed.
Raidah Hatem Hatoum
