Go Get Her Jet Setter

The other night He Man treated me to dinner. We went to a local place for steaks and, because I was feeling pretty good about life in general, I indulged in a cocktail.

Called a Jet Setter, it consisted of whiskey, ginger liqueur, pineapple juice and ginger ale. It arrived in a tall glass and was a beautiful golden colour – the exact shade of hair colour I would want if I ever decided to go blonde.

The first sip was potent. I fancy myself a bad ass whiskey drinker because I prefer my whiskey without soda, water or ice. But this bad ass probably has one whiskey a year, a single at that, that she then sips all night long.

But this isn’t really about my whiskey drinking habits. Its about what happened in the car on the way home.

Before you get all excited, this is not that kind of blog.

We were a few blocks from home when suddenly my internal thermostat malfunctioned and my face went from room temperature to hell’s waiting room in a nanosecond. At first I thought I could wait it out, that once we were out of the car the cool night air would restore normality, but a block from home on went the aircon as I thought I was about to spontaneously combust.

Alas, it was a very short block and then we were in the garage and the engine was turned off and there was no more aircon and the night air was not nearly cool enough and, well, let it be a testament to my upbringing that I didn’t start taking my clothes off right there.

Eventually, many locks and doors later we made it into the house where taking off all my clothes did not help, it only made He Man’s temperature rise.

***

Eventually the repair crew pitched and fixed the thermostat and the jet setter settled into bed and slept soundly.

In the morning I realised a few worrying things. I am only forty but menopause is looming on the horizon. I am probably not going to survive menopause’s brutal hot flushes, at least not without embarrassing myself by stripping naked in Spar. Booze is probably only going to make it worse so I will have to menopause sober. And every time I see the word menopause an image of cabbage comes to mind.

Oh I can see it now, fifty year old me having hot flushes and hot farts. What a package! I won’t be at all surprised if He Man jets off to somewhere exotic until it all passes.

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