RED-HOT MAMA

I picked up the Trins from the UT Martin campus, where they had just finished taking the ACT. Man, it was hot outside at high noon!

Pushing a tight deadline between morning exams and an afternoon wedding, we pulled through the drive-thru at Mickie D's and grabbed a couple of sandwiches. Me, I wanted nothing more than a gigantic, icy, $1 diet-Coke...heavy on the ice, please.

As I pulled back out onto the four-lane, I spotted a digital sign flashing the current time and temp: 105 degrees. Maybe the bank's thermometer was a little bit off, but it couldn't be by much. I was burning up!

Sweltering temperatures, the sizzling sun beating down on a dark un-airconditioned car, four large heat-generating bodies - no wonder I was melting.

Then, the I'm-almost-50 internal nuclear reactor kicked in, that mysterious mechanism that randomly decides that the world couldn't possibly be hot enough already: "You don't even know the meaning of the word hot, lady. I'm going to cook you from the inside out!"

My three teenagers are very fortunate their middle-aged mama didn't stop the car, strip down on the side of the highway, and douse herself with diet-Coke right then and there. By the time we reached home, my clothes were entirely soaked through with sweat. The driver's side car seat was soaked. Nothing sounded good to me except a cold shower. Aaaaaah!

Turning 50 gives a whole new meaning to the term "red-hot mama."