Yes, it’s hot outside. What do people expect? This is July, not November. Besides, Trump is in the White House, happily worsening the global warming problem. We shouldn’t be surprised by a heat wave.
Weather forecasters appear to be, though. They’re issuing heat advisories, cautioning us to stay indoors, and wringing their hands dramatically. As much as I appreciate their mock concern, they need to snap out of it. The heat outside is easier to tolerate than the weather inside; it’s about twelve below zero. Air conditioning blasts out of every vent in every building non-stop.
So, I’ll take refuge in summer, thank you. Winter lingers long enough; no need to subject myself to a year round cold snap. I will not complain about the heat or the humidity or the searing sunshine. Not now and not at 130º. I’ll complain about not having a pool and the indignity of a farmer tan, instead.
If I had access to a swimming pool, I wouldn’t have a farmer tan. Well, I say tan, but it’s more like a gradient of beiges, the full spectrum. Except for my feet, which are a ghastly, glowing fish belly white. The problem is dress codes. Swimming suits aren’t allowed in public places: restaurants, libraries, coffee shops, bookstores, they all have strict rules. Show up in a swimming suit and you’ll be asked to leave, politely but insistently.
Wearing clothes and shoes, with their sleeves and cuffs and socks, leaves a distinct border. Borders not readily apparent from a swimming suit. So, since I like the outdoors — not in the camping sense, but in a go outside and play sense — I have the skin tone and patchwork coloring of Ma Kettle after a day in the fields. Okay, sing along with me, ‘a pretty girl is like a melody …’
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