Ladies, can we talk?

If you’re of the MALE persuasion, might I suggest that you go here to read about golf, or push a pin in my guest map to let me know your where abouts? I promise the following will not interest you unless perhaps you are married to a female over the age of 35, who mysteriously wakes up a million times throughout the night only to disappear into the bathroom and reappear in different pajamas. I have a hunch the following story was not only the last thing you had in mind when you surfed on to my blog, but will be more information than you really cared to know in the first place.
Trust me.
Golf is good.

Now with all the guys out of the room, let’s talk about what I like to call sfitzing. You know what I mean? When you go to sleep and wake up in the middle of the night drenched in your own perspiration, sopping wet from head to toe? Could this be the dreaded onset of menopause?
I like to go to bed each night freshly showered and perfumed. My favorite pajamas are usually of the silky variety, a gown from Victoria’s Secret perhaps, with spaghetti straps and matching robe.

This is how it starts anyway.
Then…
Sleep descends and within a few hours, unbeknownst to me, I start to sfitz.

(To Sfitz: adj; lightly perspire, dainty sweat caused by nervousness, or unknown medical condition.)

Water begins to seep out of every pore in my body. I’m not talking about a little dampness on the forehead, or in my hairline, yet those things are most definitely effected. I’m talking about a full blown, bring-your-water-wings-and-snorkel-to-bed drenching that covers every inch of me. Nothing is left dry.
Nothing.
Including my covers and my mattress.
So I have to get up and take my wet nightgown off, wipe down with a towel, and change into a gown this time of a nice cotton blend.

Upon return, I find my side of the bed completely wet, as if someone had just poured a pitcher of water into my covers. It’s 2:30 in the morning so I reluctantly crawl back in and eventually fall back to sleep. A few hours later, I’m awakened once again by the shivering of my own body, as a result of the tiny ice crystals forming from the air conditioner and my damp covers. The cotton nightgown is now drenched and once again, I’m off to the bathroom to dry off and change pajamas. For a brief moment I consider wrapping up in a big beach towel, but opt for a nighty in an absorbent terrycloth blend instead.
Help!
Am I melting?
What’s up with that?
Of course on the up note, Christmas shopping for my husband is a breeze this year! He's getting a squeegie... maybe a rubber raft and an inner tube.