It’s only June 24 and I’m already over summer … Unless, of course, someone wants to buy me a beach house or a Caribbean island. Then I could get on board with this g*d-awful weather.
I usually don’t hit this point until mid-to-late July, when the heat and humidity is so oppressive, I turn downright mean. But where I live, we’re in the middle of an early heatwave, so my summer meltdown is also coming early.
I don’t know if it’s global warming or midlife hormones, but I swear summers are hotter now than when I was a kid growing up in the ’70s and ’80s. It feels like we’re living on the edge of hell, and I don’t like it.
The funny thing is, I used to love the summer. My best friend and I would sit on the beach for hours, talking and reading magazines while we tried to get tan. Now, I can’t sit outside for more than 10 minutes before I start to overheat. It makes me miserable and cranky.
My husband probably wouldn’t choose the word cranky to describe me in the heat. Dramatic and bitchy are probably more accurate. I blame my autoimmune condition (at least partly—some of my bitchiness is environmental).
As a #hashisgirlie, my body struggles to regulate my body temperature, so extreme weather—in either direction, hot or cold—is a problem for me. Unfortunately, it’s sometimes becomes a problem for the people around me, too.
So until someone comes through with that Caribbean island or beach house, I’m going to stay inside, crank up the A/C, and keep to myself as much as possible. I’ll be pale, but at least I’ll stay out of jail.
—LJDT
