This Blast to the Past post is a repost. It was originally published as “I’m Having A Hot Flash WHERE?” in August.
People with anxiety disorder know how it is — the least little thing can mean impending doom health-wise. Headaches are brain tumors, stomach pain from that questionable taco you ate could be cancer. Bluish colored streaks on one’s neck are only God knows what, but surely awful (or it could be getting your recently dyed hair wet).
Several months ago, I was driving to pick up Baby Girl from preschool when my bottom suddenly felt hot all over. Alarmed, I tried to feel around to see if I was suddenly bleeding out or something. That would be bad, because not only would I be bleeding out, the car seat in my husband’s car had been dismantled because Baby Girl had puked all over it the night before. As such, my husband would have no way of getting her because I’d be at the hospital with the non-puked on car seat. Shit!
After swerving off the side of the road and determining that there was no blood, I continued panicking. Why was my butt having a hot flash? Was I on the verge of death, or maybe it was something less serious, like experiencing a side effect of one of my medications? Or maybe I had an infection that I would have to figure out how to deal with on my own, since there was no way I was going to a doctor to discuss an infected butt region.
I freaked out some more, trying to come up with more explanations for my bottom being hot all over. I debated on going into a gas station bathroom, which I rarely do because that definitely makes me feel like I’m dying (seriously, I’d rather risk an accident than use most public restrooms), and checking myself out. Maybe I could use my phone camera to get a good look, only what if I accidentally hit the wrong button and went live on Facebook or something? Gah.
And then it hit me — we have the ability to heat the seats in our car. Being someone who suffers from chronic swampassitis for 6 or 7 months of the year (screw you, humid South Carolina), and having only bought the car a few months earlier at the beginning of the swampassitis season, I had never used that option. And I probably never will. So, maybe it wasn’t that I was dying, but that my husband had turned on the thing that heats the seats.
I called my husband. “How do I check to see if the heated seat thing is on in the car? Is there a button or something?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said. “I turned it on. The button is underneath the radio and all that stuff.” I found it, saw the green light was lit, and turned it off. The heat on my bottom quickly went away. Crisis diverted — Baby Girl could be picked up and I wouldn’t have to go to the ER to discuss my hot (for once in my life) ass.
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