…it’s the humidity. Oh, this wet, soggy armpit of a city where I now find myself. I tell you it borders on heinous to be a menopausal woman in this town right now. I’m like an oil slick from the moment I open my eyes until I lay my head down again to flip flop around like an old fish between the sticky sheets. It’s been weeks now of weather that people who are clearly suffering from some sort of derangement call “lovely.” I tell you I’m no good for it. Even at the height of my estrogen-filled heyday humidity and I were fierce foes. But here’s the best part: I have A/C. Its the only reason I’m still alive.
I have all the vigour of a very long and skinny wet noodle. I’m supposed to be writing and I am, I am, honestly. I finished a novel recently (please direct all prayers, vibes, and voodoo to the publishing powers that be) and I’ve started in on another, but the inside of my head is as muggy as the outside world. So I’ve turned to the words of others: Less by Andrew Sean Greer, Tin Man by Sarah Winman, The Path of Most Resistance by fellow Newfoundlander Russell Wangersky, and I have been momentarily revived and inspired. Then I step out into the wavy searing sunshine and a new round of wilt sets in.
They say we’ve a few more weeks of this mess to endure, and I suppose I shouldn’t grumble. It’ll be sleet and snow and power outages galore soon enough in my part of the world. So, distract me for a moment and tell me what’s happening where you are. Tell me what you’re reading. And tell me your secrets to keep cool. From my window I can see a young boy gleefully running through a sprinkler in nothing but superhero underpants. He’s the picture of glistening, goosebumpy joy. I’ve got a black thong and a pink shower cap at the ready. Cover me, I’m going in.