Just as we female baby boomers begin hitting menopause—wham the medical world pulls the plug on our hormone replacement.  Millions upon millions of women that, thanks to modern medicine, had been sleeping through the night are now insomniacs wearing tear-away pajamas, tossing and turning on sweat-drenched sheets. 


During one of these sleep-deprived nights, between cycles of yanking on and throwing off covers, I have an epiphany—the true reason for global warming: it isn’t aerosols, carbon dioxide emissions or industrial processes blowing holes in the ozone—it is the marvel that is woman. 


Throughout that sleepless night, I reason—at the same time we female boomers were neck-deep into menopause, there were two news events making headlines around he world: the surge in unexplainable weather phenomenon—and the demise of hormone replacement.  Hormone replacement that was once credited with preventing heart disease, maintaining youthful skin and bonus frequent flyer miles, now seemingly was to blame for cancers, stroke, and bad hair days. Women were abandoning their once-trusty hormones like last year’s handbags.  The scientists, occupying themselves by confirming long-held beliefs about the ambiguity in the weather, remained ignorant as to the environmental impact of the other news—millions of hormone-deprived women—unexplainable weather phenomena a coincidence? —I think not.


Punching my husband, waking him, and feigning sleep—misery loves company—I continue with my hypothesis.  This hormone bashing has left the hormone deficient defenseless.  Enduring with collapsible fans, handfuls of black cohosh and personal spray bottles, we are a world teeming with irritated, sweaty women spontaneously combusting. Power surging baby boomers, frantically ripping clothes off our water-soaked bodies faster than a prom night date with a midnight curfew.  And just as we get relief, our poor estrogen-starved bodies plummet from a flaming five-thousand degrees to a bone-snapping thirty-thousand below, we’re snatching up our discarded clothing, peevishly hauling them back on. 


I understand that the scientific community missed this. Those capable of unraveling it are gone.  The older scientists jumped ship, believing aerosol sprays and gas-swilling cars were to blame for holes in the ozone and understanding the resolution lay in the impossible task of convincing baby boomers to give up their favorite hair sprays and SUVs.  They sought greener pastures, investigating scientific question marks like, “If the sun is so bad, why does George Hamilton look so good?” This exodus of the senior scientific community left pre-menopausal women or men who—unlike my fortunate husband—are unenlightened as to the joys and mysteries of menopausal women.  These poor innocents should be pitied not ridiculed for their mistaken climatic theories.


As my alarm goes off, ending this interminable night, I’m blessed with a second epiphany: how to achieve my lofty goal.  At the next Global Warming Conference, an entourage of my multi-layered, hot flashing, night sweating friends and I convince the attendees to endorse my global warming theory—or—crap—what was that epiphany again? Sweating, flinging the covers off, I remember: oh, yes—we will—take-over—the air-conditioning.