The Flashdance


It’s 4 o’clock on a Sunday morning and I’m lying in a pool of glow.

I wish I could say it was afterglow from, you know, but it’s just old-fashioned, middle-aged, sweat beading all over my body.

This didn’t used to happen.

I’d finally gotten my hot flashes under control when me moved to the basement where it’s always minus 40 degrees. Even there, I spent much of the night lying on top of the covers but I wasn’t beading nor was I glowing. I was just there.

But now that Schnick, also known as three and a half kids, have moved to the basement in anticipation of the birthing of Wheels, I am back upstairs in the back bedroom surrounded by an overly hot husband and three furry canines, one of whom loves to snuggle right beside me in a strange, horizontal position.

Crap.

I may finally have to succumb to some sort of medical intervention. Otherwise, I may never sleep again.

I used to love my flashdance. My body had become a sophisticated cooling system and it felt wonderful to be a human spritzer. But the dance has gotten old.

I’m tired and I wanna go to bed.

And sleep.

Instead I’m talking to you nice folks.

Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Your friend, Rosalita.

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