When I was about 10 or 11, my mother called me into her bedroom, one afternoon, and shut the door. I remember thinking this must be something really big and important. Boy, I’ll say. I sat down on the bed, while she proceeded to have “the talk” with me. I don’t remember all that much about it except there was a book, some repulsive, implausible concepts explained, and subsequent awkwardness and urgency to return to playing outside. You remember that. You’re probably visualizing in your mind where you were when your mom had the talk with you. Looking back on it, Blair gives me somewhere between a C+ and C- for my discussion with her. Most everyone can picture their mom on that particular day. Her face flushed as she stuttered and stammered trying to explain things without really explaining them. It’s one generation getting the next ready for a big change that’s coming their way, so they’re not completely caught off guard some fateful day in 7th grade math. Oh, but they could’ve never completely prepared us- as blissfully carefree as we were- for what atomic bomb awaited us, but it certainly helped softened the boom. 

I’ve been thinking it would probably be prudent for a mother to have a second talk with her daughter. When a daughter celebrates her, let’s say, 47th birthday, her mom ought to ask her to come over and talk again. Maybe the discussions could be labeled “The Talk” and “The Talk: The Final Saga.” This time, she should explain the next big transformation that lurks on the horizon. Something like- Now, you may be noticing some changes in your body and that is perfectly normal. It’s called a muffin top and you will have it until the day they put you in the ground. You may find yourself more irritable and impatient than usual as I, too, have found you to be. You might hear your friends talk about having trouble remembering things, but don’t let that frighten you. You, too, will start to notice you can’t even think of names of everyday objects. You might say to your husband, “Please, hand me the…the….that….over there…you know…..the black thing that changes channels.” Again, no cause for concern. Like generations before you, you will walk into a room, stand there, and wonder what you’re supposed to be doing. Your chin will start to grow stray hair that will remind you of your Grandpa Jones. And, one day, out of nowhere, you’ll start to sweat and burn from your forehead to the small of your back. You might suspect you’re having a stroke, but it’s all very normal and natural and you should never feel weird or self-conscious. Don’t forget you’re still special- just in a changing way. 

Last week, I went for my yearly appointment and mentioned my increased hot flashes/night sweats to the doctor and he offered some prescription remedies for my unpredictable overheating. I wasn’t interested in adding to my medicine stash, so he said I could try the natural supplement, Gingko Biloba, for the flashes and accompanying brain fog. I came home and ordered a big bottle from Puritan’s Pride. I skipped right over their 1 and 2 month supply options and went straight to the cheese ball tub size. I took my first dose yesterday and I’m expecting big things. Cold, icy, and rainy may describe conditions on the outside, but heat and fog are the weather systems that have moved in and stalled over me at the moment. 

I filed into the choir loft on Sunday with the rest of the singers and, as soon as the air in the sanctuary hit my face, I knew it would be a long service. With the weather outside being unusually cold, the powers that be had obviously overcompensated with the heat setting. You know, those nameless captains of church climate who stay in the shadow of anonymity so to not attract criticism from the cold crowd or the hot herd. Not wishing that their parishioners succumb to the cold lest the hospital list get out of hand, it was apparently decided to err on the side of incineration that day. To splurge on the electric bill and envelop the congregation in a blanket of fire. And so, it was. 

Did I forget to mention the choir wears robes? On any given Sunday, this isn’t a big deal one way or another but, on this particular day, it became a considerable factor. The robe serves as, let’s say, the aluminum foil on a baked potato- trapping in the heat and moisture for faster cook times. Quickly, the heat enfolded me and, making its way under the robe, it set off one of my hot flashes. The kind of heat that burns and tingles the nerve endings and comes up from deep within- I suspect somewhere around the kidneys or small intestines and working its way up through the chest, neck, and face before finally rolling down the back in drops of sweat. It’s the kind of heat that will make a woman look down to be sure she hasn’t accidentally caught herself on fire. 

The church bulletin has long served dual purposes of informing congregants of the order of the service and its lesser-talked-about side gig of the creation of air movement in warm surroundings. Did I mention our service is televised? Bulletins waving back and forth in the air aren’t the most becoming backdrop for a  pastor, but I suppose a choir loft full of fainting goats wouldn’t be that great either. I looked around and noticed most of the 50-and-over altos were red-faced and shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I did create a few gusts of wind with my bulletin until I deemed it too distracting for the level of comfort it brought in return. I listened intently to the sermon as my innards reached the temperature of rare, then medium rare and, by the hymn of invitation - well done. 

Mothers of 40-something daughters, don’t wait and let your daughters get their information on the streets. Change is coming. Knowledge is power. 

Night, y’all-

JONI