There are a few things in life that simply belong together.
Peanut butter and jelly.
Coffee and quiet mornings.
Beach sunsets and fish tacos.
And if you’re a woman over 50…
…air conditioning.
Gentlemen, gather around. This is the public service announcement no one gave you.
I need to explain something to my darling (and yes this is an apology).
You see, he lives in one of those charming old Southern California beach houses. You know the kind. Original windows. Tons of character. Ocean breeze. Not a single air-conditioning vent in sight.
To be fair, when the house was built, nobody really needed one.
I grew up in Seal Beach and Huntington Beach, and we maybe had one week a year where everyone collectively complained about the heat. Usually Labor Day. That was it.
One of my favorite childhood memories was when my dad would declare the annual “escape the heat” campout at his optometry office. We’d haul sleeping bags across the waiting room floor because—wait for it—it had air conditioning.
It felt like checking into the Ritz-Carlton.
The carpet smelled faintly of contact lens solution, but I didn’t care. It was sixty-eight glorious degrees.
Life was simple.
Fast forward forty years.
Now it’s late July, and Southern California apparently wants to audition as Phoenix.
The beach house doesn’t cool off anymore. It just…holds heat. Like it’s emotionally attached to it.
He has tried.
Bless his heart, he has tried.
Two portable air conditioners.
Approximately ten fans.
I’m fairly certain one afternoon we achieved tropical storm-force winds in the living room.
The fans were blowing.
The blinds were blowing.
The dog was blowing sideways.
I was still hot.
Because here’s what no one tells men.
Menopause hot isn’t the same as regular hot.
Regular hot is, “Gee, it’s warm today.”
Menopause hot is your body deciding, completely unprovoked, that it would like to recreate the surface of the sun.
It’s like being waterboarded…but with heat.
It comes in waves.
You’re perfectly fine.
Then suddenly your internal thermostat says, “You know what would be fun? Lava.”
Within seconds you’re peeling off layers like you’re competing in an emergency striptease.
Someone asks if you’re okay.
No.
No, Brad, I am not okay.
I’m currently roasting from the inside out.
Cooking dinner?
Absolutely not.
Why would I willingly stand over an open flame while already experiencing spontaneous human combustion?
The oven is now my enemy.
The stove is suspicious.
Even unloading the dishwasher feels like a personal attack.
The worst part is that heat changes my personality.
I’m not naturally grumpy.
Ask anyone.
I’m generally easy peasy squeezy. Optimistic. Happy. The person who says, “We’ll figure it out.”
But add eighty-three degrees inside the house and suddenly I’m drafting passive-aggressive speeches directed at the sun.
I don’t want to be cranky.
I simply no longer possess the emotional bandwidth to sweat through my own eyebrows.
My poor guy keeps trying to fix it because that’s what good men do. They solve problems.
More fans.
Different fans.
Better fans.
Fans that oscillate.
Fans that promise “turbo circulation.”
Sweetheart…
At this point we’d need a weather system.
So if you’re married to—or dating—a woman somewhere north of fifty, understand this:
When she says she’s hot, she isn’t being dramatic.
She isn’t high maintenance.
She isn’t trying to ruin your adorable vintage beach house aesthetic.
She’s simply asking for the one luxury that now ranks above jewelry, flowers, and romantic dinners.
Cold air.
Turns out menopause and air conditioning are exactly like peanut butter and jelly.
Some things just belong together.
And if loving me means occasionally sleeping next to what sounds like a small aircraft taking off because every fan in Orange County is pointed at our bed…
Well…
That’s probably cheaper than replacing me after I finally melt into the spanish tile floors.
