It's Too Darn Hot

I have never been a fan of saunas. I know they're supposed to open your pores, speed up your metabolism, ease aching muscles, and do a bunch of other stuff that's theoretically good for you but I've never been able to spend more than a couple of minutes in one of them before walking briskly (I'm too sweaty to run) for the nearest air-conditioner.

Today, all I have to do to get those sauna benefits is walk outside my house. The temperature is scheduled to be in the upper 90's and tomorrow is supposed to reach 100 with heat indexes around 115. That is treading dangerously toward Hades Country and I, like most people with an ounce of common sense, am not digging it.

As someone who lives in an area that gets down to twenty below zero wind chills in January and February, I always promise myself that I will not complain when it gets toasty in July and August. And I usually don't but, c'mon, how does anyone (I'm talking to you Arizona and Nevada) function for more than a few minutes in an environment that saps every ounce of energy out of you within ten seconds of entering it?

What I have to do is remind myself to be grateful; grateful I was born in 1953 instead of 1853. Every time I watch an old western and see women walking around in those long-sleeved blouses with collars up to their chins and heavy skirts that dragged around enough dust to fill a Dyson, I feel incredibly lucky. Those poor things didn't have the luxury to escape to their air-conditioned cabins or carriages; they couldn't even grab a few pieces of ice from their freezer to toss under those petticoats. No, they were stuck with being miserable until: a) cooler weather moved in or b) a bout of typhoid or diptheria wiped out the town. Either way, it was a no-win situation.

So I guess I'll just use this opportunity to walk around in my skimpiest clothing (sorry, world), take care of things that need doing in my almost comfortable (after two additions of freon to our aging air-conditioner) home, write as much as I can, and count my blessings that I don't have a construction job.

If I play my cards right, I might even get through this heatwave without resorting to slipping those ice cubes down my shorts.

The Brown, Brown Grass of Home

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.