Five thirty-one in the morning
Alarm blares; why is it screaming?
Right-o, I'd promised a friend
an outdoor walk
before coffee,
before breakfast.
How wise of my yesterday self.
Consult the smart screen:
40 degrees fahrenheit, cloudy.
Isn't it....? Yes. It Is.
Yes, it's May first.
MAY.
As in Spring.
And yet.
Here we are.
Parka and scarf weather.
Appalling.
I blame Timberlake,
implicitly and without qualm.
(He's gonna ruin my 'hood tour.)
I dress in two layers of pants
and four tops layers,
of which two are puffy.
I'm entering Friends character
Joey Tribbiani territory:
"Could I be wearing anymore clothes?"
Think I'll leave my gloves at home
so I don't look like I overdid it.
(Poor move, kiddo; instant regret!)
Grateful for my miles of threads,
I face the blustery morning.
Soon realize a ball cap won't cut it.
Turn back for a knit hat.
It's MAY, right? Hmm.
Meet up with my bundled buddy
who says she feels "ridiculous"
in her chic winter get-up.
To which I simply point to myself
and say, "You don't even understand."
We shuffle, talk, chat and stride.
We shiver and sniffle and chatter.
She dabbles in work and personal;
I mostly share office updates.
We are of a certain age
where thermoregulation
and hormones,
those ever-shifty minxes,
vie to co-exist.
By the time I escort her home,
we have both clawed at the zippers
of our down jackets, overheated
and steaming despite the cold gloom.
I trudge on twenty minutes
further to my own abode.
By this time I'm near boiling.
Surely I will soon perish, I reason.
I feel iphone haptics zing me,
proof my child has awoken:
"So U driving me to school?"
Quick-to-follow second text:
"Or NO?"
What a little love-dove
I've got waiting on me.
I hasten my legs faster,
towards her, and external duties
despite my melty discomfort.
Still seven minutes
from my front door.
I know I won't be able
to cool off sufficiently
to drive a motor vehicle.
"Probably not,"
I speech-to-text.
Ellipses form in reply:
...
...
...
and then disappear;
.
She's thought better
of arguing. Good.
I swipe her guilt away
from my mental dashboard.
Can almost see my house;
so close to air conditioning.
Still all around me,
bundled neighbors
warm their hands together,
blow visible breath into the air,
stuff arms under armpits,
prod their dogs to pee faster.
Now I need to, go, also!
One more hill
and I am home free
("Literally!" As my kid would say.)
I huff and puff upwards,
fiddle with the door lock,
I break through,
rush over the threshold.
I emancipate myself
from my puffer coat
and my down vest
with the furrrrr
and my old collegiate hoodie
the one with the
too-small neck hole.
As always, removing it
proves a struggle.
Next up,
with increasing urgency:
rip at a quarter zip long tee.
Pull and tug
at my knotted trainers.
Wriggle out of jogger pants.
Beg and contort,
heave and perspire.
I aim to unshackle myself from
intensely effective heat-trapping
high-performance leggings.
I feel cooling breeze kiss
my steamed dumpling skin.
while removing toxins
...and ridiculousness.
Now disencumbered,
I'm free-enough to dash
to the closest power room.
Ahhh.
My brain temperature resets
I regain access to my
frontal cortex, and higher thinking.
As I reenter the hallway,
I am confronted by what
my Self of Five Minutes ago
left for now-me to find:
A long trail of lurid-hued,
mismatched, lumpy,
torn-apart and inside-out
clothes and outer ware.
What even happened here?
An elder millennial who marks
day one of this three-letter month
with a requisite recitation of:
🎶 It's Gonna Be MAYYYYYY! 🎶
I should have already clocked it.
Indeed, 'tis cannon that
peri - peri - perimenopause
would override a chilly stroll,
no sweat.
