Some machinery does not operate well above a certain temperature. And by “some machinery,” I mean specifically me. Me. I do not operate well above a certain temperature.

I melt, I wilt, I become irritable, sweaty, and an all-around cranky mess in the heat. I can barely function, let alone be expected to participate in any physical activity. Summer is, frankly, not my friend.

On a crisp fall day, or a breezy spring afternoon, I’m ya girl. I’ll go walking, I’ll walk wherever you wanna walk. I’ll sit outside and chat. I’ll even eat outside on a restaurant patio.

Or actual cold weather. I can handle it. I am a champ in cold weather. I can keep going and going.

But heat – thank you but no thank you, I believe I’ll pass. I have a friend who likes to suggest we eat on the patio when the temperature is over 80⁰, and I swear she does it just to see the look of horror on my face.

Above a certain temperature, I simply cease optimal functioning. But for much of my life, I pretended that wasn’t true. I pretended that I was unaffected by the heat, the humidity, the blazing, relentless sun. I pretended I was fine.

It was never an easy act to pull off. I have what might be called a “ruddy” complexion. That just means that when I’m overheated, I become spectacularly red in the face and people look at me with very concerned expressions and ask if “I’m okay?” and “Should I sit down?” and then start edging away because, frankly, they don’t have time in their schedule to be involved in a cardiac event.

When I’m overheated, I look unhappy. I do not look fine.

So, why was I bothering to pretend? Why did I want to act like I was unfazed and unaffected?

Because I was young and foolish. I thought that other people thought about me. And I thought that what they thought about me was really, really important, that’s why. I thought I had to keep up an unflappable appearance, to never let ‘em see me sweat – even when they could literally see me sweating.

Not being bothered by heat was actually only one of the things I pretended about when I was young. I pretended so many things. I pretended that I wasn’t worried, that I wasn’t sad, that I wasn’t uncertain. I pretended that I had it all figured out. I pretended that I didn’t need help.

But now I am growing old, and my pretending is gradually falling away. I’ll step into a building now and loudly proclaim “…oh law, they need to get the air-conditioning goin’ in this place!”

I don’t pretend I’m not hot, I don’t pretend I feel fine. I don’t pretend I’m not worried, or sad, or uncertain. Sometimes, mostly at my job, I still pretend that I have it all figured out, but I’m getting over that one, too. I talk frequently to my friends about what I don’t understand, and what I can’t control, and what I need help with.

Do I have a point here? A lesson? A moral of the story?

Well…not really. I don’t believe a young me would have read these words and suddenly overcome her self-consciousness.

I think this is just a celebration post of sorts. A celebration of parts of aging that are really awesome and completely unexpected – an unwillingness to pretend anymore, and incredible, time-tested friendships that can handle the truth.

As a young woman, I remember wondering what older women talked about. Now I know the answer – everything. We hold each other’s sorrows and misgivings. We tolerate each other’s weaknesses. We find joy whenever and wherever we can.

Because we don’t have to pretend anymore.