I woke up early last week because my son had a football competition. It was the second and final day of the tournament. The first day had been windy, dusty, and cold, but the second day was much better—warm, with a fresh, chilly breeze. All we needed was a spring sweater and a hot coffee.
I arrived at the venue, and the whole place was buzzing—coaches, organizers, parents, and kids filling every corner, getting ready for the first match. I called my lovely friend Olive to check where I could meet her. She told me she’d be near the pitch. Then I spotted her.
“What on earth are you wearing, Olive? Are you joking?”
The last time I saw someone dressed in that many layers was during my last winter in Canada. And now, here we were, on a perfectly reasonable 18-degree day.
“Are you that cold?” I asked, watching her clutch her coffee in one hand and a massive bag in the other.
“I am freezing, for god’s sake.”
If I remember correctly, she had at least one hoodie over a shirt, a jacket wrapped around her, a massive scarf, and—holy moly—was that an Ugg boot? Just looking at her made me feel like I was overheating.
“It’s too cold,” she insisted as an excuse.
I couldn’t help but wonder what on earth was inside that fat bag of hers. Emergency blankets? A space heater? An electric fireplace?
Anyway, we found a spot to sip our coffee while waiting for the boys to start. I suggested a shady corner since the sun was fully up and it was warm. Olive, gripping her coffee with both hands like it was a lifeline, insisted we stand somewhere sunny. So, we compromised—finding a spot split between sun and shade, each of us standing in our preferred climate zone like two opposing weather fronts.
A few minutes later, Olive groaned. “For god’s sake, I feel so hot.”
And just like that, she started peeling off layers—hoodie off, jacket down, scarf unraveled. Then, barely moments later, she shivered. “I’m freezing again.”
And the layering-up process began all over again. It was like watching a one-woman hurricane of clothing—on, off, on, off.
Then it hit me.
My dear friend was experiencing hot flashes and cold flashes within minutes of each other.
Just as I thought she had finally settled, she reached into her oversized bag and pulled out… a half-meter-wide heated pad. I watched in horror as she magically activated it—like some kind of winter sorceress—then wrapped it around her neck, on top of her scarf, in the sunny part of the pitch.
I had officially given up.
Meanwhile, I stood there in my light sweater, coffee in hand, watching my friend, a walking contradiction, a woman battling multiple climates at once.
And here it is—one of our legendary tales of battling menopause. Grab your fans, your ice packs, and maybe a fire extinguisher
Dana Obeid
