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A few minutes ago, my neighbor caught me sitting on the porch with bags of frozen yeast rolls shoved under each arm pit.

Yep, that's right.

One minute, I'm living life.

And the next minute, I might as well be rolling around in the clothes dryer.

Oh yeah. I've got 'em, alright - hot flashes.

And they bring out the worst in me.

Because my body so frequently catches fire, I strip out of my clothes faster than the speed of lightning. I stop, drop and roll on cold linoleum. I have no shame. And I mean it.

Before perimenopause ruined my life, I was the queen of flannel jammies. All winter, my furnace was full throttle. I wore old lady sweaters inside air-conditioned restaurants.

But now? Well you can see your breath inside my house. And since I so frequently disrobe, you can also see my naked, barn door-sized hind-end, whether you want to or not.

Even with friends around, I'm known to say with a sweaty face, "Hold that thought."

Then I excuse my flaming self and head for the kitchen, where I drop ice cubes down the front of my shirt. If that doesn't do the trick, I step outside and blast myself in the face with the garden hose before I reappear in front of my guests, dripping and hateful.

"But what does a hot flash feel like?" My son recently asked.

"It feels like 183 blow dryers are aimed at my chest and face," I snapped. "It feels like being rolled up like a burrito in an electric blanket, then dropped in the middle of an active volcano. It feels like being shoved inside a giant broiler while wearing a parka and itchy wool pants."

He squirmed in his chair.

"What?" I asked. "You can't handle the truth?"

"That mean look is on your face again," he said nervously. "Sometimes you scare me."

"I feel like a walking torch," I snapped. "If you were me, you'd be honked off about it, too."

"I'm not unscathed, you know," My son said in a shaky voice. "Every time I visit you, I suffer frostbite."

- Sherri Coner

Award-winning journalist and humor columnist Sherri Coner is the author of six books - all fun and heartfelt with a signature sprinkle of sarcasm. Her stand-up comedy gig is another avenue of entertainment (R-rated since nobody censors that potty mouth). A recent survivor of breast cancer, Coner shares the journey on her blog. Through her posts, you will see the moment when Sherri finally found humor hidden behind a million tears. "Remember, girls, that laughter heals the soul," she says.