I hate summer. There I said it and I don’t feel ashamed for admitting it. Yes, I’m fully aware that it’s not officially summer yet but we’ve certainly had a couple of days that felt like it in terms of heat and humidity. (If you’re currently thinking, “Oh no, not this rant again.” It’s time for me to tell you that you sound exactly like my husband.)
Okay, I’ve just had a thought that maybe I don’t hate summer. I just despise heat and humidity which occur in the summer so that kind of makes summer the conduit for my hate not the subject of it. Whatever, I have now officially confused myself so I’m just going to stay focused on heat and humidity. Which in my opinion has to be the worst partnership ever. Although I’m sure they both love each other very much due to their exceedingly long-term relationship based on making people miserable.
As with most of my complaints all roads lead back to Texas where I grew up. Enduring summer after summer where you remain in a state of constant moisture changes you. When a shower just means you’ll be sweating exactly five minutes after toweling off and the act of blow drying your hair is an excruciating experience that then necessitates another shower it breeds a special brand of loathing.
This means even if I no longer live in Texas any hint of heat and humidity ignites a crisis sequence in my brain. Suddenly I begin swamp sweating as the repressed memories of years spent trapped in a Texas terrarium of moisture return with a vengeance.
The curious thing about all this is that my husband, also from Texas, doesn’t experience the same level of stress from the heat + humidity combo platter as I do. There is only one reason for this – he’s insane. Or you might be thinking that perhaps he doesn’t enjoy complaining as much as I do. Hmm, there is that, but I’m currently choosing not to pursue that avenue of thought.
Although, I do think a lot about humans who actually enjoy the sweltering heat. Most of these people seem to be TV meteorologists. Have you ever noticed that when a local weather personality is giving their five-day forecast they’re actually gleeful about temperatures in the upper 90s?
It’s a cheer fest of “Wow, would you look at that? Five days in a row of over 90 degrees. Could you ask for a better forecast?”
Then there’s some small talk thrown in with the news anchor of how awesome it’s going to be to do so many outdoor activities with the “great weather we’re having.” The part they forget to mention is that all those activities will require clinical strength deodorant and some robust hydration.
Where’s the hip, hip, hooray for temperatures in the 40s? I would love to see a cozy weather report from a meteorologist extolling the joy of 43 degrees. But yet there’s no “it’s perfect weather for reading a book or making pumpkin bread.” All the love is saved for the summer.
It’s almost like sweltering weather has its own stellar marketing team. Is “Big Sun” (like big pharma or big oil only hotter) wining-and-dining meteorologists to get them on team “fry an egg on the sidewalk”?
I’m definitely thinking that’s a possibility and I plan to do some more research into this topic. But it’s going to have to wait a couple of months. This is because all my energy will be laser focused on griping about the heat. Once October arrives I’m sure I’ll have some time on my calendar to go deep on “Big Sun.”
📚Hey there, did you know that I have a new book out? You can order it on Amazon by clicking here http://www.amazon.com/dp/B09ZKPGQZQ
Here’s a little lookie loo at the fun.
They’re broke, bitter and not ready to give up without a fight.
Three middle-aged women who have seen their carefully crafted lives take a precipitous financial plunge, forge an unlikely friendship while getting paid to take part in a clinical trial for a new menopause drug. The trio spends a month sequestered at a pharmaceutical testing facility that has all the charm of a nail salon inside a Walmart, and bond over their anger and disbelief that their only hope for some quick cash is leveraging the remaining estrogen they have lurking in their ovaries.
Each of these women has a recent story of their existence hurtling to hell. Maria had a career catastrophe so epic that googling her name is now painful. Cassie’s extreme vanity took an ugly turn and Julie’s husband didn’t just walk out on their marriage, he disappeared with all the money
Once they become roommates, this cadre of unlikely friends merge their talents to find Julie’s missing husband and her half of the “marital assets.” Maria has major accounting mojo, Julie has connections, and Cassie, a former soap opera actress, has acquired an assortment of shady skills during her Hollywood tenure.
As they plot, scheme, and embark on an adventure to find an AWOL spouse, they learn how to fight back against a world they believe deems them old and insignificant and, in the process, discover that fifty is when life gets fun, especially when you can get even.
Snarky in the Suburbs 