Heat

by Linda-Marie Barrett

Heat travels along the surface of my skin and warms the chair I’m sitting in. Beads of sweat trickle down between my breasts, dampening my shirt. I gather my hair into a twist and clip it up above my neck, then reach for a handheld battery-operated fan, shaped like a penguin. I click it on and wave it back and forth in front of my face. In a minute or two, I’ll be fine. It’s just a hot flash and I’ve learned to ride this wave and make my little adjustments to be more comfortable.

The truth is, my body’s thermostat is broken; no matter how often I set it to cold, it registers hot. The situation is not as extreme as during the perimenopausal years, when constant surges of volcanic heat prompted the purchase of said penguin fan. Still, many nights I wake up in a sweat and kick off the covers. As resigned to this ritual as I am, there are moments when I look heavenward at the ceiling and mouth, “why?” Hot flashes visit while I sip on a cup of coffee or tea, enjoy my daily dose of dark chocolate, or blush when plain-spoken language strikes me as naughty. I avoid hot showers, and do not sit in hot bathtubs. A nicely warm one, yes, but spare me an experience where I’m simultaneously soaking in and sweating off water. I’ve adapted my wardrobe to handle quick disrobing in response to heat. I wear loose-fitting layers of light cotton, silk, or linen, and throw up my hands in a cross when someone mentions woolens or turtlenecks.  

I’ve fought many battles with heat exhaustion. The most serious happened when I was shut in a brick rancher with the elderly owners of the farm house my former husband and I wanted to buy. The owners had closed all the windows because the woman had diabetes and feared a chill. The air in the room was stifling. I grew increasingly uncomfortable while we negotiated the terms of sale. When I moved my sweat-soaked hair off my neck, the man cried out, as if giving an amen, “A woman’s hair is her glory!” Glory? Did he not see I was dying? I went from sweaty to clammy, and grew faint. After finally striking a deal with them, we headed straight to a convenience store where we bought Dove Bars to place, wrappers on, over my neck and chest. On the drive home, I dangled my feet out the window and lay back until I could breathe normally. I missed work the next day.

I once unknowingly attended a hot yoga class. I was visiting my brother in California, and after doing some research online, discovered a class I could walk to from his house. I should have realized this was hot yoga when skimpily-clad students carried towels and water bottles into the studio. I also noticed they were at least ten years younger than me. As the temperature in the room climbed to 100 degrees, we moved rapidly through a series of poses. I began to overheat but pride pushed me on. I was soon sweating like an NBA basketball player, and felt the sting of salt in my eyes. Fearing passing out, I staggered from my mat and grabbed onto a pillar, watching the younger ones continue to move effortlessly in what I came to believe was the Logan’s Run of yoga practices.  

Cruelly, running hot like an engine low on oil did not correspond to an increased metabolism. Beyond all reason or sense of fair play, I was both hot and swollen, with a metabolism stuck in a gear called lethargy. This felt very unsexy, despite my current husband’s affirmations to the contrary. Fortunately, when I gave up alcohol and embraced a vegan diet at the beginning of “The Biden Era,” the extra weight fell away, though my sensitivity to heat remains unchanged.  

These days, we keep the house cool and dark in summer, where I live like a vampire, emerging to exercise in the mornings and after dusk, only walking out in midday when I carry a parasol or am otherwise armed with sunblock, sunhat, and UV clothing. I know my limits, and my sensitivity to heat is matched with a predisposition to burn easily. Perhaps it seems odd, then, that I live in the South, when a northern climate would so much better suit my body’s aversion to heat. Despite it all, I love it here, and ironically, I’m not a fan of the cold, either.