I've lived in the Midwest for most of my life and I've gotten used to weather extremes. Well, that's not completely true. No one in their right mind can get used to 20 below zero wind chills and ten foot snow drifts. What I should have said is that I've accepted the fact that, as long as I'm crazy enough to get my mail delivered here, I know I'm going to have to put up with temperature swings that necessitate sweatshirts and shorts living in the same drawer.
I don't know if global warming is the culprit or not (if so, I apologize for using all those cans of aerosol hairspray), but this summer has been particularly brutal. I'm not one to complain about hot weather; I do enough of that between November and March. Usually, as long as I can duck into air conditioning every couple of hours, I'm good. But, after four consecutive 100 degree days, with humidity that would frizz Cher's hair, I'm crying uncle. I'm not saying I'm ready for the melodious rhythms of the snowplows; I'm just saying I'd like a day under 90.
Last summer, I don't think I had to water my plants more than a handful of days. Several times a week we were lucky enough to have a decent rainfall that guaranteed an abundance of cherry tomatoes as well as a lush lawn as green as the felt on a pool table. This summer, our flowers need to be doused two or three times a day just to have a fighting chance and the lawn is looking more and more like the baseline at Wimbledon after two weeks of play.
I wouldn't be quite this upset about the weather if it weren't for two things. I just spent several hundred dollars to go to a wedding in a beautiful state park and spent all of ten minutes outside the confines of the lodge and, this weekend, I'm about to host a large gathering in my backyard that is doomed to end up singing karaoke in my basement. Maybe there will be a few brave souls that venture out to toss the frisbee around. To them, I just want to say:
I'm sorry. And, please don't sue me if you cut your feet on the grass.
No comments:
Post a Comment