Life in the Tropics

Until recently, Sophia was inordinately proud of the fact that she did not suffer from Hot Flashes. Whenever her female acquaintances complained of this uncomfortable, indecorous eruption of the body, she would shake her head in sympathy, secretly certain that her lack of Hormonal Heat Waves was the sign of some deep-seated superiority, or perhaps the triumph of feminism over biology. Sophia did not feel herself to be Bound to her Body, as History had decreed woman must be. She was too educated and hip to patriarchy's tricks to ever succumb to this Postmenopausal Misfortune.

Until this summer. Yes, it's been hot, but Sophia cannot attribute these quasi-tropical heat waves to the weather. Uh-uh. Because this thing starts from the inside, happens really fast, and then recedes like a super-hot Tidal Wave of Sweat.

Ergo, it is a Hot Flash.  When these flashes occur, it is as if Sophia has been harboring a secret tropical world under her skin. A third-world vacation spot, if you will, where hot, muggy breezes are likely to sweep in without warning, knocking over her beach umbrella and sending her fancy cocktail glass tumbling across the sand, followed quickly by her copy of Love's Sizzling Sweatfest, or some other lowbrow Beach Read. When this happens, she must stop whatever she's doing and bow down in humble obeisance to the Goddess of Late Midlife, for She is surely angry about something.

Worst of all, these little impromptu getaways sometimes happen in the middle of the night. Now Sophia has heard tell of women who soak their sheets when this occurs, but so far, there hasn't been anything that drastic. But it's still pretty awful.

Sophia imagines, at these moments, that the repressed underclass in her colonialist vacation spot has had enough, and are now taking up arms against their oppressors. She pictures Havana, circa 1958 or thereabouts. The music is great, the drinks are flowing, but the party is about to end. Castro's insurgents are on the march, bringing the End Times to Cuba on a wave of sweltering heat. Batista and Michael Corleone are retreating back to Florida, and taking all the fun with them. Sophia's body, like Cuba, is now a fun-free zone, where all there is to do is mop one's brow and go to Dreary Communist Party Functions.  No more rum punch or Cuba Libre's.  No rock and roll. No sexy dancing dresses. Nope, just the boring, moralistic, occasionally sweaty regime that is Late Middle Age.

Arrgh!  Surely this isn't all there is!  Surely the last years of Sophia's life will not be just frowning sternly at younger people, preaching to Percival, and waiting for hormonal heat waves to recede. Surely there are a few more parties to be had. A few more wild, madcap moments of colonialist fun, before Old Age gathers its armies and takes over the government.

Sophia, as a former Far-Leftist, is enjoying this counter-revolutionary metaphor.

In fact, she is going to buy herself a Fruit Hat and a ruffly skirt, and say the Hell With It. It's hot, but that's no reason to throw in the towel.  She intends to use that towel to wipe away the sweat, then kick back, light a revolutionary cigar, and enjoy what's left of the show.

Denial at the Cellular Level

Sophia reads between 4-6 newspapers online every day. She is a reading addict. Although some people seem to withdraw from intellectual engagement as they hit middle age, Sophia suspects she may be in the grip of a subliminal panic stemming from the deep fear that she may not be able to read enough stuff before she Checks Out.  She reads newspapers, magazines and novels--of both the high-culture and low varieties. She doesn't read self-help books, however. She finds that the advice offered in these overpriced treatises is often so simple as to be obvious and (therefore) insulting.  Sophia is not interested in Finding Her Bliss, knowing The Secret, or embracing some watered-down and historically-sanitized version of Oriental Wisdom. Moreover, she recognizes that Oprah is a marketing genius, but not the reincarnation of Zarathustra.

She prefers fiction or, occasionally, history. At present, she is reading Karin Slaughter's crime thriller, Broken, which she bought at the grocery store, and Tolstoy's Death of Ivan Ilyich, which she always meant to read by never got around to. Both of these stories have dead bodies in them, but that's about all they have in common.

So anyway, all this is a preamble for today's discussion of a really interesting series that appeared in The New York Times a month or so ago.  Although it's no longer current by journalistic standards, this series of articles is still trending in Sophia's Cerebral Search Engine. In other words, it's still on her mind.

It's on anosognosia.  You're thinking, what the hell is that? Sophia didn't know either. Apparently, this is a neurological condition whereby a person doesn't realize that something pretty fundamental is Not Right with them. The author gives the example of a really stupid bank robber who thought that if he rubbed lemon juice all over his face, he would not be visible on security cameras. When he was caught immediately after robbing a bank, he was distraught. He had really believed the lemon juice thing.  He was too stupid to realize how stupid he was! This fancy-schmancy Greek word, anosognosia, means something like "not knowing that one doesn't know." The author suggests that, although most people don't believe that lemon juice is some kind of invisibility unguent, they definitely don't realize how ignorant they are about other stuff.

When Sophia read this, she thought immediately of fashion. You know, how some people will wear things that they must think are hot, or elegant, or hip, but just look Wrong and Foolish. These people doubtless look in the mirror and think "my black socks and Birkenstocks are the height of Coolness. I shall be admired wherever I go today," or, "these shredded jeans in a size four look great on my size eight ass. No one would ever guess I'm forty-eight instead of twenty-two."  

Yes, fashion is the Lemon Invisibility Juice of large numbers of anosognosic Americans.

But as just this thought crossed her mind, another followed immediately after, causing Sophia to lose her smug expression. Since a true anosognosic must be completely oblivious to her own stupidity/poor taste/bad manners, Sophia realized that she herself could be a victim of this syndrome and not have a clue. She could very easily be one of these poor black-socks-and-Birkenstock types, thinking she's cool or hip or even still a little bit hot, when in fact she's just pathetic looking to people who are truly cool and hip and hot. Or even pathetic to normal people, including little kids.

Thinking about this made Sophia super-paranoid.

Because when one is Over Fifty, there are so many ways to slip into anosognosia! Just forgetting one's true age for a second can lead to an Anosognosic Moment.  Some danger areas:

Makeup, including but not limited to: sparkly powders and eyeshadows, lip liners (eek! Sophia is terrified of lip liners), dark lipsticks, and (especially) blush.

Miniskirts:  Sophia does not care how great your legs are. If you are Over Fifty, you should not be wearing these unless they are part of some private erotic ritual shared with a husband, partner, or paid companion.

Leather pants, unless you are really an aging biker with a cool nickname you got in your twenties. In that case, Sophia decrees that leather pants are okay.

Bare midriffs, even if enviably toned. Any Over Fifty woman who walks around showing off her navel is clearly in the grip of Severe Anosognosia. This woman expects to be carded in restaurants and thinks the twenty-something waiter is really hitting on her. She has no clue that he's totally hip to her lemon-juiced self-image, and knows that flirting with this mutton-dressed-as-lamb is a sure way to get a bigger tip.

Now of course there's a danger here, too. Because one can become so worried about being anosognosic that one begins to dress like a grandma. Which is sad in another way.

Pondering this, Sophia realized that a certain amount of anosognosia is necessary for survival and happiness, however illusory.  In order to be truly At Peace, she thinks, the Over Fifty woman must at once know, and not know, that her hotness days are over. She must eschew bare midriffs and lip liners, for sure--but she can still make a leap of faith--or hope--and show a bit of leg, the shadow of a still-impressive cleavage, or a nicely-shaped derriere.

It also helps to have a mate who shares one's anosognosia. Sophia's husband Thor, at appropriately intimate times, invariably tells her she's sexy and even beautiful. He does not say "still sexy," which earns him points. (And other stuff, which Sophia shall leave to the imagination.)  At these times, Sophia often wonders if Thor is crazy or deluded.

But now she knows the truth: in a good relationship, anosognosia is contagious. In other, more familiar words, love is blind.

For those of you who are still looking for That Special Someone, here's some advice. Don't try to find a man who loves you as you are. Sophia has had those, and they do not foster spiritual growth. Or domestic bliss, or even long-term stability. These guys encourage one's worst tendencies. Sophia herself developed a serious drinking problem in such a relationship.

No, you should find a man who loves your illusions of yourself. A man who will be your lemon invisibility juice as you attempt to carry out a reckless bank robbery. Or perhaps an ill-advised career change. He will have his own self-delusions, of course. But you won't be bothered by them. You'll encourage his psychotic ideation, as he encourages yours. You'll be like two halves of a broken mirror--both hopelessly estranged from reality, but perfectly in sync together.

Sophia thinks there may be a self-help book in there somewhere. In fact, she suspects that writing self-help books is the ultimate expression of anosognosia. Which proves that self-delusion isn't only comforting...it's also big business.

Just ask Oprah.