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.

I Scream, You Scream

Labor Day weekend is just a few days away and that can only mean one thing. (Well, two things if you count the 'can't wear white after' nonsense). It means that ice cream season is almost over.

I don't know about you but I don't have a whole lot of interest in ingesting frozen confections when it's 12 degrees outside. Once those hot summer nights give way to blustery winter hibernation, I comfort myself with warm chocolate chip cookies and a cup of tea instead of a sundae. Somehow, dodging icicles outside has a way of shutting down my desire for fudgsicles when I'm inside.

But tonight, it's still August. It was still warm enough to walk around town after dinner. I wasn't going to pass up one of the remaining opportunities to enjoy a frosty treat. Lucky for me, I didn't have to have to settle for ice cream; our town has a gelato shop. Yes, I know. I'm addicted to anything Italian but, c'mon, I don't care how American you are, comparing ice cream to gelato is like comparing a Mitsubishi to a Mercedes. If you've had it before, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, what are you waiting for?

I'll have you know, I did behave myself. I got a small cup filled with a strawberry and raspberry combo. (The fruit flavors are definitely where gelato has it all over ice cream). As my husband and I wandered through the town, dipping our tiny plastic spoons into each others' flavors (I know, that sounds a little dirty), I tried to soak in the waning hours of this 27th day of August.

Summer's almost over. I've got a few more flavors to try before I'm ready to say good-bye.