I am on my third sip of wine when it happens.

It starts inside, from a place deep under my ribs. At first it feels like acid reflux. Or alcohol flush. But I know it’s neither of those. This feeling is familiar. All too.

I am trapped in a cocktail party cluster. How did I get here? How did I drift over to this bunch of people I hardly know? We are talking intensely. We are standing close and drinking wine and eating little pieces of bread with smoked salmon, dill and capers on them. And everyone keeps talking, except me. I am frozen with fear. “Frozen” being a figurative term.

The topic is global warming. Are they kidding me? I could warm this entire zip code in the middle of January! No fossil fuel required.

The heat shoots to my head like a Roman candle. My scalp is on fire. Can hair sweat? I think my hair is sweating.

And I can hear my dearly departed grandmother scolding, “Don’t say ‘sweat!'” Ladies glow, and men perspire. Only horses sweat.” Well, with respect for the dead, Granny, just call me Seattle Slew.

Who turned off the A/C? Where is the thermostat? A fundraiser is not the time to save energy. It’s June, for crying out loud. Doesn’t anyone believe in ceiling fans anymore? Stubborn, always-have-to-make-a-point environmentalists.

Oh God. What is this man’s name? He just introduced himself two minutes ago. Why can’t I remember?

My neck is wet. Not damp. Wet. Like rain or a chai latte with soy. The hair at my temples is so wet it sticks to my cheeks. That’s it. I’m cutting my hair off next week.

The heat intensifies. I’m going out of body. I can hear voices, but there’s no more conversation. Only waa, waa, waaaaaaaa. Like the grown-up on “Peanuts” TV specials.

My thighs are sweating now. Drops of perspiration fall on my calves. Why can’t they make Spanx in breathable cotton? It’s not rocket science, people!

I am barely aware of my surroundings, and I am acutely aware of my surroundings. My eyes scan the room for a way out.

Someone asks my position on school vouchers.

THE DINGO ATE YOUR BABY!

I can feel something dripping down my back. It slides between my shoulder blades and pools at my waistband. Drip. Drip. What was I thinking wearing silk?

I am desperate, and I cut a deal with God: Don’t let anyone at this party touch me, and I’ll swear off wine for a month. One week, minimum.

My eyes dart around the room. A sticky embrace from one of these huggy-feely folks could turn my blouse into a soaked dishrag and salt-stain it forever.

What was I saying? Did I support school vouchers or come down against them? I can’t remember. Who cares? My kids are in college.

Lord, I’m hot. I’m hot-hot-hot-hot-hot. And not in the Paris Hilton way.

Why is the woman in the Hawaiian shirt smiling? Did I say something funny? Is mascara streaming down my face? Is that a bead of sweat I feel rolling off my chin?

I’ve got to go. There’s no time for excuses or thanking the host. No shaking hands. In another minute, I’ll look like a wet T-shirt contestant. The one who came in last.

I side-step my way to the door, smiling like an idiot and nodding as if someone from across the room is still talking to me. “I’ll call you!” I mouth the words and make the phone sign with my hand. I wave good-bye to no one and to everyone.

Inches away from freedom, I’m accosted by a pixie-haired woman in a cool linen dress.

“Leaving so soon? Did you get a chance to make a contribution to fight global warming? The planet is getting hotter by the minute, you know.”

I dig through my purse and hand her two twenties, three ones and a fistful of change.

“I wish it could be more,” I say.

She calls to me as I sprint to my car.

“Hope to see you at the next one! It’s a picnic! On the Fourth of July!!”