I’ve always enjoyed warm weather. Bright sunshiny days lift my spirits and inspire me to break into happy songs, although I try to not do that at funerals or in court – anymore – because I’ve been told it’s disruptive.
However, we’re experiencing a run of hot weather here in Oklahoma that has daunted even me. Going outside and hearing your sweat sizzle can take the spring out of anyone’s step. And if you’re heavy like me, you realize that you have enough fat on you to fry yourself if you’re not careful. You’d only need to add sides of mashed potatoes and collard greens to make a meal fit for any southern cannibal king.
Not that I know if tribes that practice cannibalism have kings. Perhaps they’re called chiefs. Or maybe chefs. But why do they say that a tribe “practices” cannibalism? What happens when they become experts at it? Obviously they become French chefs, but do they get a certificate and perhaps a celebration feast? Although that is one dinner invitation you should probably decline.
And not that I was saying that there were more cannibals in the south of France. I’m sure France allows them to live everywhere – after all, we’re talking about a country that eats snails – but when I think of cannibals (and apparently I do more often than I thought I did) I associate them with hot, steamy jungles where ape men who didn’t make the NFL draft swing on vines and hunt for girls named Jane, although Jane is not a popular name these days and perhaps they should be looking for a Buffy or Angie.
It’s certainly been hot here. Days of nearly unbearable heat. The water in my swimming pool has actually reached over 96 degrees. Any warmer, and it wouldn’t be a pool anymore; it would be a soup bowl. It’s weird to get into your pool and break into a sweat.
The sun is so piercing and bright that you have to wear sunglasses, even at night. The glare from car windows can start fires, and recently a whole flock of ducks were cooked as they flew over the parking lot of our local shopping center. Okay, I’m exaggerating. It was only two or three ducks and one goose.
We’ve also had several weeks of high humidity. You can get drenched with sweat walking five paces from your car to your house. Actually, you can get drenched just by breathing deeply.
The humidity does make the warm weather harder to endure, but I’ve grown so tired of people saying, “It’s not the heat; it’s the humidity” that I want to strangle whoever does so. I would, but it takes too effort to do that right now. I’m making a list, however, and come sweet blessed fall, I will be busy.
The funny thing – no, not funny ha ha; funny as in peculiar – is that I don’t like fall, but I’m looking forward to it. I don’t like fall because the leaves fall off the trees, the plants die, everything turns brown, the weather gets cold, and winter is peeking around the corner, and I don’t like winter the way I don’t like politicians. The only redeeming quality fall has is football, and I think it would be more enjoyable in the spring or early summer. Despite my animosity toward autumn, I’m ready for the cooler weather it brings.
Mind you, I reserve the right to complain loudly when the temperature falls too low. And if it snows, the whining will be truly tremendous. You might as well be prepared. At least people won’t be going around saying, “It’s not the cold; it’s the humidity.” But if they do, they’ll be on my list. Maybe I can see if the cannibal king wants to have them over for dinner.
Copyright 2010 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying or reposting without written permission.
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