A couple of months ago, in anticipation of our impending move to North Carolina, my husband and I decided it was time to upgrade our furniture. While I was still completely and unequivocally in love with our aubergine-hued loveseat and oversized chair, my husband, whose rear end had made a lasting impression on the now-sunken in chair, was never the biggest fan of the set.

We had each brought our own brand of baggage into the marriage six years ago, and, much to his dismay, my baggage was purple furniture. I love purple. I have always loved purple. I will always love purple.

While I can’t be certain, I have my suspicions that during the wee quiet hours of the night, while I lay in bed snoring like a 300-pound drunken trucker on pay day, my loving husband would tiptoe downstairs, creep into the livingroom and hurl insults and ridicule at the furniture with harsh words like, “You think you’re sooooo royal, dontcha?” or perhaps “One of these days I’ll be rid of you and all your purple pompousness!” I don’t know this for a fact, but I have my hunches.

When we strolled into Rooms to Go on that bright and sunny Saturday afternoon, determined to wander undisturbed among the meticulously arranged displays of living room suites, bedrooms, dining rooms and assorted overpriced bric-a-brac, we were shadowed by a stealthy saleswoman who crept about like a thief in the dark. She never made a sound, yet she would materialize out of thin air at the precise moments when we needed her most. It bordered on spooky.

After back and forth discussion, testing the durability of seats by plopping down upon them like an exhausted 10-year old child after having played in a mid-season soccer match and even prodding, pinching and poking cushions as if they were fresh produce at the farmers market, we finally made a decision: We’ll take the loveseat, chair-and-a-half and matching ottoman from the Sofia Vergara collection, please. They were not purple.

As I sat next to the saleswoman while she filled out the paperwork with so much laser focus and determination that the tip of her pink tongue peeked out the side of her mouth as she wrote, the flames of hell swelled up and erupted within me.

I swear the burst of heat started at my ankles and quickly worked its way up to my thinning eyebrows. Dampness ensued on my forehead and before long sweat began to glide down my face. Well just damn. I was a fireball waiting to spontaneously combust. I spoke aloud to no one in particular.

“Damn, it’s hot in here. Phew…I need to fan myself.”

I dug deep down into my purse—past my purple Samsung S5 phone, pushing aside my purple wallet and nudging past my purple eyeglass case—and, like David Copperfield yanking a reluctant rabbit from a two-sizes-too-small hat, I whipped out my purple fan and, “fwoop,” opened it up and began vigorously fanning myself like I truly had burst into flames. My husband, being all too accustomed to my menopausal hot flash displays, simply shook his head and pretended like he didn’t know me.

The saleswoman looked up from her little clip board and immediately burst into raucous laughter—the kind of from-the-gut chuckle that one would emit if they had just been told the most hilarious joke this side of Eddie Murphy. She began to tear up as she laughed. To the untrained eye, she could have been suffering from a stroke, in the throes of a severe asthma attack, or overcome by insanity. However, when she pointed in my general direction and choked out, “That fan! It’s so big,” I knew the source of her hysteria.

It’s not the first time my fan has caused a commotion. With a wingspan of 24 inches, you simply don’t expect to see someone liberate something so gargantuan from their purse and began swooshing air around. I, however, am never phased when the site of me fanning myself causes others to giggle, point or stare slack jawed. You see, this big, lovely, purple fan was a gift to me from my husband. He purchased it for me while on a business trip in the Philippines and it has rarely left my side since then. I would venture to say you can’t imagine the volume of wind that is generated by this fan, but that would be too easy; it’s sheer mammoth size naturally lends itself to creating a helluva lot of wind.

At night, my lovely fan is the third entity in our bed, taking up residence snuggled in between me and my husband. During the day, it’s never too far away from my waiting grasp. When I leave the house, I select which purse I’m going to carry based on whether or not it can accommodate my fan. Sadly, my diminutive clutch bags are rarely used now. The fan would, quite literally, stick out like a sore thumb.

Despite its size, I wave my purple fan with the utmost pride. The gorgeous hue makes me feel especially elegant and regal as my right hand sways gently back and forth, offering comforting albeit temporary cooling relief. I love my fan…it helps to put out the disturbing flames of menopause. Do you  have a menopause fan?