I reckon it was inevitable.
Because I’m sitting here, in a house with the thermostat set on 65F. It’s something like 45F outside. My feet are freezing and my face and torso are damp with sweat and I have NOT been following a couple of friends leads and doing
calasthenics calesthenics (see, they’re so foreign I can’t even spell them) y’know…EXERCISE. I am just sitting here, on the computer, wearing a comfortable post-church velour track suit (in case someone drops in, they will see the sweat and suit and hopefully assume I have been doing calesthenics. whatever). It feels as though there is a furnace inside that has no ductworks leading to my limbs. What’s up with that?
All my life, because I was raised that infirmity was probably a sign of character weakness, I assumed I was immune to those annoying things I heard women discuss when the men weren’t around. *an aside…if you want the men to leave, discuss Female Things. It works every single time. The assumption was that I could snicker at the women who griped about wetting their pants when they sneezed, or had hot flashes, or grew mustaches.
Well. ahem. at least women don’t…well…we don’t…er…Well, suffice it to say Men Have Issues, Too, y’know. While women have an assortment of products we can purchase to Deal With That Little Problem, men have NASCAR, cigars, and Buffalo Wild Wings’ impressive selection.
Where was I? Oh yeah. I had coffee recently with a friend, one of those kinds where you can ask “do I have a mustache?” and you know, since she’s a cosmetologist, that she’ll give an honest answer. Something along the lines of “well, there is a bit of a shadow. Maybe bleaching or a good sharp razor would be in order.” It’s bad enough that I didn’t notice the hair on my chin until it was long enough to style.
at some point you just have to roll with it.
So not only do I have an internal furnace that makes me sweat, I have a mustache that glistens when I do. No comment on the sneezing problem. Because this may be It Really Is Personal, I’m not ready to go there yet.
It’s all probably a good thing, a sign that life is progressing as it should. My body (that thing Carrie Fisher so elegantly describes as her “brain bag”, and has also been charmingly called a “meat suit”) is doing what bodies do, getting older, telling me that There Will Be No More Babies (actually that was taken care of by artificial means but now the hormones are catching up with the concept). It’s as if it is saying “well ok fine, since There Will Be No More Babies, there’s no reason to be pretty without a WHOLE BUNCH OF WORK.” Fine then, I think, if I can’t be pretty and firm and dewy (I think I’m doing dewy pretty well right now, however)(except for the mustache…ugh), I can be smart and experienced and wise and some other words older people use to feel good about themselves.
Or I can irritate the hell out of younger people, which is basically the same thing.