It should not be allowed to get this hot in a country where we have freezing temperatures for six months of the year. Seriously! If God is baking cookies, he can pull them out of the oven and turn the durned thing off now. My guess is they are done, kind of like me.
I am a wilted, wrung out sweaty sponge of a female when it is this hot. Hair scraped back, face red, freckles splotchy, sweat-sheened. Sexy. *grimace* My clothing sticks to me, wearing a bra is akin to torture, and my shoes smell. Blech.
It is so hot that I have even dared to expose my lily-white legs in shorts! The legs that are still itchily decorated from the allergic reaction I had to those teeny biting flies on the beach in Cuba. These gams never tan, even when I sit out in sunny weather sans sunscreen. They never burn, they never seem to lose the pale, ghost-like ivory hue. Pair that with new (six month old) angry red welts, and you will understand my trepidation.
I never show my legs. They’re embarrassing, to me (insert pity party here with a tiny violin and w(h)ine with cheese). I revel in their strength, I am thankful for their use, but their looks? Not so much. And before you ask? No, the orange glow of self-tanner isn’t really my thing. It’s fussy, and I’m really not that kind of girl.
But in the heat, I realize I can’t look much worse than I already do, so on go the shorts. I still have to take a big gulp to go out the door in the morning, and try not to think about them all day, realizing I am being vain and silly, but unable to stop. I have legs, they propel me every day, they can leap, run, jump, swing, and stand as the strong, muscled trunks of my tree. I just wish they had better bark, I guess.
I’m hoping the temperature will go down soon, so I can go back to my jeans, and I can be relieved of more than just the heat.