Feelin' Hot! Hot! Hot!

So for about 12 weeks of the year, just so we don't get all cocky about our girlish fabulosity, Aunt Flo comes along to knock us down a peg.

It's not humbling enough to deal with the regular rigors of one's period. The standard features are not a whole lot of fun but with a little practice are manageable. Small price to pay. Like jury duty. Not a bad penance for the right to vote but everyone grimaces when their number is called nonetheless.

But then there are the "upgrades." The bonus tracks. The director's cut scenes. The gifts with purchase.

The bloating. Abs like a skillet one day. Floatation device the next.

The cramping. Not unlike being tasered.

The outrageous hunger pangs. Anything that isn't nailed down is in jeopardy. Particularly if it is made of chocolate. Or could could be mistaken for chocolate.

And the moodiness. I could be crying over a touching commercial for Tire Warehouse one minute and the next, verbally disemboweling the barista at Starbucks for asking if I want "whip" and thereby suggesting that someone of my proportions might want to avoid the "whip." I know that's what she's thinking. Skinny beyotch.

And now at MY AGE, I get these features, only Super Sized (special shout out to both my ovaries - thank you!) - plus one more.

Hot flashes.

Literally cooking from the inside out, I believe myself to be walking on the sun in my gasoline dress. I curse Global Warming. I have fleeting thoughts about Hell. I am sweating like an Olympic Marathoner at the Death Valley Games.

It is the day before New Years. My kids are with Lars and I am driving to Scott's after work, when that harbinger of doom, Aunt Flo, puts her whammy on me.

I am 35 miles into an 80 mile trek. With a sweatball on my nose.