Sweat Sisters

When we were little savages roaming the streets and yards of our Jersey City neighborhood, one of our number suggested we become "blood brothers." Where he got this concept, I have no clue. Probably TV. Anyway, we all thought this was a great idea. The brave among us proceeded to prick their fingers on thorns and whatnot. I was allowed to use an existing cut on my shin. Nobody cared that most of the "brothers" were actually girls and no one suggested that we change the title to include blood sisters. If for no other reason, there was no catchy alliteration going on with the phrase "blood sisters." For a time, I'd guess approximately four days, we all formed a club and it was good.

Fast forward thirty-eight years and I find myself a reluctant member of another alliteratively pleasing, yet far less satisfying club. I am a member of the Sweat Sisters. Nothing drove this point home to me more than an encounter I had the other night at a party. I was talking with two women who I like, but do not know well. They are both friends of a friend. I never see either of them, except at the home of our mutual friend every once in awhile. Somehow, possibly because we were all drinking wine and feeling flush and uncomfortable, we got on the subject of peri-menopausal temperature changes. Up until then, my conversations with either of these women were limited to polite inquiries about their children and small talk. But suddenly, this unexpected three-way exchange blasted off like a rocket to the moon! Stories of the kind of sweat never before experienced in our lives washed over us and we became animated. We ventured beyond simple perspiration, into weight gain and then on to mood swings. We were rolling. I never realized either one of them could be so funny, so candid and so right on target. Inevitably, this run-away train of validation tore right on into the bedroom. Our nightly battles with sheets and blankets were laid bare. Our need for having skin exposed no matter how cold the room revealed. An abiding love of ceiling fans in the dead of winter was acknowledged. And, of course, the complete cluelessness of our partners when it comes to understanding the inconvenience of their mere presence in bed was lamented. It was heady and fabulous to be understood. The experience could only have been surpassed if it had culminated in a group hot flash--a personal summer gone viral.

Alas, the conversation eventually died off. We moved on to mingle with other people. But even if we never discuss it again, I'll never forget that meeting of minds, bodies and souls. I friended them on Facebook, but we're still basically strangers to each other. The only difference now is that we are Sweat Sisters. If only it lasted for a mere four days.