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.