Fire and ice

So how’s your hypothalamus today?

What? You didn’t know you had a hypothalamus? You sure do!  It’s stuck in your brain, right between the part that makes you think Monty Python is funny and the part that makes you go to sleep when you eat turkey on Thanksgiving. Or maybe the science guys have it better.

I really wasn’t very aware of my hypothalamus until the last several months, but because of my Magical Journey through Womanhood and Beyond, my hormones have kicked the heck out of my poor little almond-shaped brain portion, and as a result, I never know what temperature it is. Except I’m at the wrong end of it.

No matter what the season, I can be freezing when everyone else in the room is looking for a fan, then stripping off all my sweaters and socks fifteen minutes later before I spontaneously combust. Since from time to time, I’m actually in court for extended periods, this, as you might imagine, creates some pretty good times.


Hot flashes? No. I’ve never experienced these, at least not in the form I read about them, with the slow growing flush spread throughout the body. I do wake up at night a couple nights a week if the room is at any normal temperature at all, just bursting with heat, and throw off the covers. This is certainly a source of much frustration to the Cabana Boy who never really knows exactly how many blankets we’ll have, but probably not as many as are comfortable for him.

Cold flashes?  I never knew there were such things, but apparently I’m not the only person to have them. Even when it’s 70 degrees out, sometimes I just can’t manage to get warm unless I immerse myself in a steaming bath and just heat through.

A lot of times my right hand will be cold to the touch and my left hand will be warm. They can’t even figure out which way to go.

So here’s my ode:

To the noble hypothalamus:

You do so many things for us,

You’ve served for half a century

And swing twixt  ice and fiery.

Tedious grows this vacillation,

I sure as hell need a vacation!

So knock it off! My temper’s rising,

Or else it’s just another phazing.

Hot to cold, and cold to heat

Into my hands, out through my feet.

Perhaps a bribe? Chocolate? A plea?

I beg you! Stop tormenting me!

Or ELSE. *

the end

* I’m a novelist, not a poet.