I am hot. I am extremely, very, muchly, undesirably, sweatily, drippingly, head-achingly, filthily, and smelly hot.
If not for the fact of having met my wife, fallen in love, and created an amazing family here in North Carolina, I would without a moment's hesitation move to the Canadian tundra. It makes no sense at all for a pale, pasty, fluffy German from Long Island to live in a sub-tropical climate. If you're going to tell me North Carolina isn't sub-tropical, save your typing. Today, it feels fully tropical, so I was really already being kind.
The only reason I'm writing this blog post at all is because the laptop sits right above an air vent.
What the hell is wrong with people who like this kind of weather? My lovely wife loves it, so maybe she can tell me. How can you enjoy a day when the air itself is so heavy and humid you have to expend energy just to draw it into your lungs?
And did I mention that I'm pale? I can burn at the October state fair on a cloudy day. Yesterday, after only an hour in the sun spreading pinestraw, I could feel a burn developing on the back of my neck. I went inside to apply sunscreen but it was already too late.
Thank goodness our children don't have my extreme whiteness. Our daughter darkens so much each summer she no longer looks caucasian. Our Italian has beautiful skin that stays right in the middle at the GQ level of tan. Even the German tans, something I've never been able to do. Nope, for me it's always been white, to red, to white.
And as I sit here typing, I just told the boys that once I cool down we're going to Wendy's for lunch, Walmart for grocery shopping and then? Where else? To the pool to roast in the sun some more.
I must be brain-damaged.
P.S. Happy 51st Anniversary to Mom & Dad!
ⓒ 2010 Mark Feggeler