Hot Town, Summer in the City (In Other Words, I'm Miserable.)

Sunday, June 27, 2010

With apologies for starting this post out on a negative note, let's cut to the chase: I HATE THE HEAT. I can't believe I've never covered this before, but it's true & it's strong. I really, really, really hate the heat.

My roommate Jason hates it, too, as evidenced by the following series of texts & the fact that we opted to take a cab home from U Street today rather than stand in the sun for 10 minutes until the bus arrived:
Kaaaaaaaaaaaaate. It's hoooooooorrible outside. I just got out the door and now my everything is sweaty.

Why is this bus not air conditioned? Why am I so sweaty? Why won't the heat go away? Whiiiiiiine.

I need some new genes, stat.
I find Mother Nature's other elements to be aggravating but largely manageable: when it snows, bundle up; when it rains, carry an umbrella. But what options are there in gabillion-degree heat? There are only so many layers of clothes to remove! Stubbornly, I've also been known to refuse to wear summer-appropriate clothing, occasionally donning Pete Wentz-style pants in the heat of July. Alas, yesterday I caved in & bought shorts, which is both shameful & liberating. I don't really know how to wear shorts, & I am beyond convinced that they make me look like a minivan mom - but my legs can breathe now, offering me minimal but essential respite from the heat.

Still, people who enjoy heat - who like it, thrive in it, crave it, love it - sort of make me sick. I don't understand. What part of bathing in your own sweat is enjoyable? What part of "If I don't have a glass of water every 10 steps, I'm going to dehydrate" is likable? Who seeks out suffocation? Sunburn? Sweat?

That's the key to my dislike, really. Sweating. I am, admittedly, like, the sweatiest person on the goddamn planet, which makes for regularly unpleasant summer days - hair plastered to my head, weird patterns on the backs of my solid-colored shirts, etcetera. Maybe I have a problem. Maybe Jason's is onto something in that text. Maybe it all comes down to genetics. Those among us blessed with being relatively unsweaty can withstand the heat - & perhaps even enjoy it. But for those of us whose pores deem it appropriate to relentlessly marinate us in sweat, every day feels like a public bath. Everyone's all, "It's not that bad," & I'm all, "I've just lost half my fluids & I look like I just crawled out of the Gulf oil spill." (I'm painting a beautiful visual image for you here, I know.)


OK, fine. There are a couple things I like about summer, but they're, like, tangential. They're honorable mentions to make me feel better about losing the genetic summer lottery. But because I don't want to be a total downer, I'll indulge. They include:

Scruffy men in Raybans.

Mango margaritas at Mixtec. The menu listed them as being "MANGO!," so we felt the need to yell it enthusiastically every time we discussed their deliciosity.

And, of course, the occasional summer outfit, spotted in a CVS, that makes it all feel just a liiiiittle bit more worth it. Maybe I'd like the heat more if I started sporting dip-dyed one-pieces? I bet that's the key.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to hoarding cold air like it's Y2K & not leaving my apartment until absolutely necessary.
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