And in this weather, only two things grow-- or three: frustration, hot tempers and disease

It's really not that hot right now.

The sun dipped behind the trees outside of my window hours ago. No tendrils of light. No amber rays frosting the horizon. No nothing.

But it's really humid.

My ceiling fan is roaring at high speed. I've turned off as many heat-oozing appliances as I could (want to guess what I didn't turn off? Need a hint?). Both windows look like they want to swallow me, the only thing missing is a few rows of serrated and hooked teeth.

So it's not that hot. It's not Sahara hot, Death Valley hot or even Florida hot. If it happened to be this hot, my face would be a puddle on the floor. But this humidity.

People have said that western Pennsylvania is notorious for humid summers (and geriatrics, but that was a different post). I'm a cold weather person, too. I love snow, falling leaves and the cool breezes of March. But as soon as pavement starts shattering and swim suits hang suspended in sidewalk sales, I run for shade. My body doesn't handle hot or humid weather too well. I don't think I've thought too much about "why," nor will I ever.

I hear a conversation between my father and his sister leaking from the kitchen. It's not heated, but sounds so; humidity does this sort of thing. I heard a promise not too long ago about releasing my home's air conditioning from its cage, but I'm still at the mercy of a rattling fan with less horsepower than a Hot Wheel.

My vision swims. My forearms slide on the elbow rests on my swivel chair, lubricated by a sheen of sweat. And I normally don't sweat much at all. I contemplate shuffling to the kitchen for an ice-cold glass of water, but I forget who I am and mumble something and spin around in my chair a few times before sleep's musty blanket smothers me. But only for a few moments.

A click, a whir. Cold air hits my feet and slowly fills my room like some sort of trap from an Indiana Jones film. I snap to my feet, slam my windows shut, giving the sticky air a moment to filter out through the screens. Not a moment too soon, either. I think I'm a pleasant person year round-- but only when it's not humid. My mood lightens as my dripping t-shirt empties its reservoirs.

But get this: I like this weather. Well, that's a lie. But I'm really trying. God made summer just as God made winter and autumn and spring. I need to be joyous about this weather. It's a beautiful time of year, heat or no heat. Maybe I'll go outside tomorrow.

posted, with grace and poise, by Jason @ 7/05/2005 02:42:00 AM,

2 Comments:

At 8:55 PM, Blogger Erica said...

Okay, so I finally saw the post on xanga that said you were going to start writing over here. May I just say, It's about time!

You know what, sometimes when I read stuff like yours and I wonder how I can ever even think of becoming a writer. It just takes all the vanity right out of me. Where did you learn to paint with words?

 
At 3:13 PM, Blogger Cymru said...

This is superbly written. I'm in a humid climate too. Missouri. I've lived here most of my life and, like most around me, have never adjusted to humidity. My hair is even worse. Everytime I go outside, my hair gets so mad, it frizzes up in protest - seconds before a constellation of freckles run screaming to play peekaboo on my face. Somewhere, deep in side my genetic self, lies hair follicle number 42, which tells me that my hair was built for a high of 68 degrees and a low of 32. Yeah, Wales.

 

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