I’ve never been someone who sweats a lot. I know what you’re thinking, “Well goody-goody-gumdrops for her!” But the point is, I gave little thought to my own micro-climate. Seat warmers for morning car rides? Yes, please. Cashmere sweaters? Why not? Cashmere Turtlenecks? Bring. It. On.
I’m suddenly constantly roasting. I mean sticky, clammy, flushed, and hot. It’s a constant and never-ending rotation in hell. (My own personal summer.) I have Tamoxifen to thank for that.
[This segment is brought to you by the Letter T]
Adding to the loveliness that is my ever-present “dewey-glow” is that I no longer wear antiperspirant. In my quest to quit using any products which contain toxic chemicals, ingredients linked with cancer or endocrine disruptors (i.e those that fuck with my estrogen, bad, bad), I have had to make some personal sacrifices. And one of those sacrifices is my deodorant.
My friends AT and HB warned me when I first started out using Soapwalla that it may take some getting used to because it’s a cream. Once I quickly got over the ick-factor, I was sold. I loved its clean scent, plus I felt good about its organic and vegan ingredients. And while I think my deodorant kicks ass over Tom’s of Maine and other so-called organic products, it still doesn’t do quite the same job as my clinical strength whatever-brand I used to get from CVS. Oh well, I figured, I’ll just mask any odor with a little essential oils (I don’t wear perfume anymore, just mixed essential oils in a little glass container) and that will do the trick.
But here’s the thing about my crazy hot flashes. It’s not like in the movies when someone suddenly is dripping with sweat down their face and everyone makes a joke – it’s not pretty. Like at all. I was at a fancy-schmancy party this weekend sweating profusely all over: down my back, under my arms, and yes, in my nether-regions. There I was, mingling and having a nice time thankyouverymuch, and yet totally scared that at any moment someone would lean in for a hug and notice my body drenched with perspiration. The horror!
It’s hard to accept that I just “run hot” now. I’ve had to make some adjustments and say goodbye to some old friends: Goodbye chunky cardigans I’ll miss you; farewell turtleneck sweaters, it was nice knowing you; arrivederci flannel pajamas, may you find happiness elsewhere. It’s not you, it’s me.