Were it possible to simply melt away and die of heat, I'm certain I would have already. My hair has launched its own rebellion, an attempt at ethereal that's more like pre-fatal arm flailing. (Super fun example at right.)
In Wednesday's 96º heat, I mowed the yard, battling the 80% humidity with my negligence. Humidity always wins. I have never been so sweaty. I had to lay out all of my clothing to air dry. The day wasn't over yet; I still had a farmers market booth.
After carefully loading the Pathfinder with bakery goods, which takes approximately seven trips, I settled in for the drive. Blasting the AC and a CD (ha!), I'm good to go. The AC had another plan: breaking. Ten minutes into the trip I was still blasted by hot air. Sweat trickled down my back and face. I couldn't open the windows because that air would sweat the baked goods and blow away my bread labels. But I was dedicated to a solution. A combination of window-cracking and a more moderate hot air blast felt a teensy bit better. Then I rolled my shirt up like a lady and hunched over the steering wheel for the rest of the ride, farm 'hood style.
Have you ever seen a cat pant? It's hilarious — like a mild form of hyperventilating only cats don't open their mouths far, so no visible tongue. Very dramatic. And that's what I felt like doing as I exited the car. Compared to my furnace of a ride, the stale air outside felt divine. I grabbed a napkin to soak the mist from my back and neck, then rolled my shirt back down like a fairy princess before setting up my magical booth that I really wished had a moat of any kind.
As I sat for the next 145 minutes, my gelled and braided hairs slowly reaching heavenward, I texted George the only thing I was thinking: "Why why why do we live here?"