The joy of aging…gracefully?

As a woman of a certain age, there are several expected (if unwelcome) physical issues that I am experiencing. Many of these can be grouped into one general category, named with the dreaded “M” word…MENOPAUSE. I don’t really understand why society has been unwilling to talk about this in the past–it’s just a thing that happens, like gray hair or stooped shoulders–but fortunately that seems to be changing. This condition, which women who live long enough are blessed to have, has gone from being something whispered about amongst matrons as “the change of life” to having a Broadway musical named after it (which may be a bit too much, really). Fear not, I will not be delving into the many mysteries associated with this aging process, except for one…hot flashes.

Yes, I no longer have any control over my personal temperature, regardless of what I’m wearing. I can go from comfortable to blazing in two seconds flat, and then (fortunately) back to comfortable with no notice whatsoever. But during each aptly named “flash,” which generally lasts only a matter of minutes (sometimes just seconds), I am surprised that flames aren’t shooting out of my ears. So I deal with this however I can–deep gulps of whatever cold beverage is nearby; shedding coats/jackets/sweaters as far as is socially acceptable; and fanning myself.

Because I have been in my hot flash era for several years now, you would think I would be more prepared. I should carry a battery-operated tiny fan or perhaps a beautiful foldable paper fan that I could whip open with a flick of my wrist a la Lady Windermere. Alas, I have yet to add such an item to my handbag, so instead must fan myself with whatever is handy. Which at classical music concerts, plays, and other entertainments tends to be the paper program.

I do not have any special way of fanning myself, other than to try and move air around my face in a way that might bring me some modicum of comfort. Recently, however, I learned that I must be doing it wrong. At a concert in Kansas City’s wonderful Kauffman Center, during the third movement of Tchaikovsky’s wonderful Sixth Symphony, I began flashing. (If that’s not what suffering from a hot flash is called, it should be!) The only option available to me was to fan myself with the program book, which I began to do, right in front of my own face, while still engrossed in the music. After just a few moments, however, the (unrelated, unknown) person on my right leaned into my space and whispered, “Would you fan the other way?” Flummoxed, I stopped fanning altogether, while on my left my husband stifled a laugh.

I don’t know what “the other way” of fanning is, so if any of you out there do, please let me know. If it’s a male-only secret (although men obviously do NOT go through menopause), that seems profoundly unfair, but I still would appreciate the lowdown. Until I learn that other way, if you are near me and I start fanning wrong, I apologize. And perhaps I will start carrying that battery-operated fan around.