The Irrationality of it All

I’m fifty-two years old. Generation X, if ya nasty! I grew up in an era where every child had an irrational fear of quicksand. Not because we’d ever encountered quicksand on our walks to and from school, but because damn near every movie we watched had a scene where someone found themselves sinking slowly into the hellish depths of that oatmeal-looking shit.

We had to be prepared so we took notes from those movies and produced a tried-and-true method to avoid a disastrous fate… Don’t fall into quicksand. If that little patch of ground looks suspicious, throw a rock into it. If the rock sinks, walk around it. If the rock stays on top, you’re free to move about the sand pit. When in doubt, just walk around it.

Now, if you were dumb enough to step into quicksand because you weren’t paying attention to your surroundings, we had a few notes on that too.

Don’t move. You’ll sink faster. If you’re with a friend and they’ve managed to avoid the quicksand, have that friend throw you a vine or a rope or hold out a long stick for you to grab onto. But that only works if there actually is a vine or a rope or a stick to throw yo ass, because none of our little friends were going to risk being pulled into that death trap by offering you their hand.

It’s funny how so many of us were so convinced that quicksand would be a bigger problem than it really is. The unchecked anxiety of my youth could fill a psychologist’s notebook… but I’m rambling.

Why am I talking about quicksand on a blog dedicated to my menopause journey? Well, I told you my quicksand story to eventually tell you that the biggest irrational and unchecked fear of my youth has actually come true.

Spontaneous combustion.

The first time I had a hawt flash… I legit thought I was spontaneously combusting. I was scared. I couldn’t understand how I had caught fire from the inside, but there I was in a coffee shop slowly dissolving into a pitiful pile of soot and ash.

Or mud.

I was sweating so much it felt like a waterfall had sprouted from the base of my skull and was running down the crack of my ass. Now that I think about it… that might be the only reason the spontaneity of the combustion didn’t kill me. I had a built-in sprinkler system.

Listen… I was so damn hawt and sweaty that Idris Elba could have walked up to me, smiled, and then pulled me into his muscular arms, and you know what I would have said?

I would have said, “Getcho fuckin hands off me!”

And I would have meant that shit.

Anyway, I got the chlorophyll gummies I was talking about in the last blog, but I keep forgetting to take them. So far, I’m doing pretty good on the days I don’t wear deodorant, and on the days that I do… I don’t need the aluminum.

So, take for what it’s worth.

Hawt flashes are bad, but aluminum is worse.

Idris, catch me on one of my cooler days. I promise I’ll be nicer.