Summertime in the South

There is a moment every winter, without fail, when I wish for summer. It happens when my fingers are numb yet hurting trying to fumble with the car door handles, my teeth chatter uncontrollably and my bum is a solid (smallish? maybe?) block of ice. This state cause me to yearn for the two amigos of summer in the South: Heat & Humidity. (The names demand capitilization. Their presence is too strong for lower-case lettering.) Yes, Heat, with its image-blurring and skin-charring combines with the sickly smothering qualities of Humidity to produce a sensation quite unlike any other - that of drowning in fully breathable air. Still, when one is freezing, the hot-drowning seems nice. However, now that the weather is upon us, I have changed my tune.

Switch gears; a bit of back story: My grandmother was quite the fiesty woman, and I like to think that it was due to her hot-headed nature that she sweat so much. Summers were not her season. I can distinctly remember her sitting in a lawn chair in one of her (completely awesome) tunic blouses with pins in her hair and wiping her forehead. Well, I inherited many things from her: short legs, a quick temper, and the ability to sweat like the dickens even in the snow.

So today, when I had to clean out my car unexpectedly due to my boss needing a ride to work, I had to do the deed in my work clothes (heels and all!) and with my makeup already on. I should have worn a sweatband. I began the task looking reasonably pulled-together, and by the time I was through, I looked like a very warm drowned rat. I love many things about the South. Summertime is not one of them.