06E045
Just
as we female baby boomers begin hitting menopause—wham the medical world pulls
the plug on our hormone replacement.
Millions upon millions of women that, thanks to modern medicine, had
been sleeping through the night are now insomniacs wearing tear-away pajamas,
tossing and turning on sweat-drenched sheets.
During
one of these sleep-deprived nights, between cycles of yanking on and throwing
off covers, I have an epiphany—the true reason for global warming: it isn’t
aerosols, carbon dioxide emissions or industrial processes blowing holes in the
ozone—it is the marvel that is woman.
Throughout
that sleepless night, I reason—at the
same time we female boomers were neck-deep into menopause, there were two news
events making headlines around he world: the surge in unexplainable weather
phenomenon—and the demise of hormone replacement. Hormone replacement that was once credited with preventing heart
disease, maintaining youthful skin and bonus frequent flyer miles, now
seemingly was to blame for cancers, stroke, and bad hair days. Women were
abandoning their once-trusty hormones like last year’s handbags. The scientists, occupying themselves by
confirming long-held beliefs about the ambiguity in the weather, remained
ignorant as to the environmental impact of the other news—millions of
hormone-deprived women—unexplainable weather phenomena a coincidence? —I think
not.
Punching
my husband, waking him, and feigning sleep—misery
loves company—I continue with my hypothesis. This hormone bashing has
left the hormone deficient defenseless.
Enduring with collapsible fans, handfuls of black cohosh and personal
spray bottles, we are a world teeming with irritated, sweaty women
spontaneously combusting. Power surging baby boomers, frantically ripping clothes
off our water-soaked bodies faster than a prom night date with a midnight
curfew. And just as we get relief, our
poor estrogen-starved bodies plummet from a flaming five-thousand degrees to a
bone-snapping thirty-thousand below, we’re snatching up our discarded clothing,
peevishly hauling them back on.
I
understand that the scientific community missed this. Those capable of
unraveling it are gone. The older
scientists jumped ship, believing aerosol sprays and gas-swilling cars were to
blame for holes in the ozone and understanding the resolution lay in the
impossible task of convincing baby boomers to give up their favorite hair
sprays and SUVs. They sought greener
pastures, investigating scientific question marks like, “If the sun is so bad,
why does George Hamilton look so good?” This exodus of the senior scientific
community left pre-menopausal women or men who—unlike my fortunate husband—are
unenlightened as to the joys and mysteries of menopausal women. These poor innocents should be pitied not
ridiculed for their mistaken climatic theories.
As
my alarm goes off, ending this interminable night, I’m blessed with a second
epiphany: how to achieve my lofty goal.
At the next Global Warming Conference, an entourage of my multi-layered,
hot flashing, night sweating friends and I convince the attendees to endorse my
global warming theory—or—crap—what was
that epiphany again? Sweating, flinging the covers off, I remember: oh, yes—we will—take-over—the
air-conditioning.