It's hot.
The air is heavy with humidity. The old wooden back door, swollen with water weight, balks when I push it open. I know how it feels. I step outside and gravity takes hold. My feet feel like they are encased in cement, my body as though it is burdened by an old fur coat. Movement is slow and murky, as if pulled by an underwater current. Mother Nature is having a hot flash.
It's hot. Too hot for shoes. We peel off clothes, wishing we could peel off our sweating skin, allowing it to fall from our bodies in one untidy lump. I am sticky and dripping, even though I showered half an hour ago. The fine hairs around my temples are damp. Everything is damp.
It's hot. The air hangs stagnant and still, without a hint of a breeze to break the heaviness. The sounds of hot are nonexistent. Windless air makes no noise. The view is hazy. I see the world through a yellow lens created by a mix of heat and humidity.
It's hot. We eat cold pasta salad for the third night in a row, although no one is hungry. We hold our forks with a listless grip. Our appetites are on hiatus and our taste buds have become as lethargic as the wind. Sweat accumulates on my upper lip. It is saltier than the salad.
It's hot. The pets are panting. They stretch their limbs and lie flat to increase surface contact with the cool tile floor. They are restless and move from room to room in search of a better spot. I replenish their water many times each day. They drink with the most enthusiasm I've witnessed in the last 48 hours.
It's hot. We think and talk about the weather. Someone says they heard the hardware store sold out of air conditioners. How about the humidity? Have you seen the heat index? Better mow the lawn early in the morning, before it becomes a real scorcher.
It's hot. The local beach is crowded with smart citizens looking to have fun and beat the heat. Children run and laugh. They spit water and throw sand when the lifeguard isn't looking. Mothers dip their toes apologetically into the water. Dads throw toddlers high in the air. I see my neighbor has a new tattoo. Sunscreen is had by all.
It's hot. The weatherman on TV points at the map. Our region is bright red; it matches his tie. He uses words like sweltering, oppressive and blistering. He is impressed with the weather. This sort of thing hasn't happened for years. He uses his map again to show us how this might not let up for days.
It's hot. We wished for this during the winter months, and it is here. The heat, brought on like the tide, pushing forward in whatever way Mother Nature intends. It will be over soon. The heat wave can't last forever. There will come a time when we no longer sit by the fan or crank the air conditioner to high as we drive two miles to the grocery store. We will trade in our shorts for jeans and, at some point, shoes will become a necessity. We know it will happen. In our hearts, we know it will be soon.
At the moment, however, I am sweating and it's difficult to think of anything besides wiping my brow. It is hot.
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
The air is heavy with humidity. The old wooden back door, swollen with water weight, balks when I push it open. I know how it feels. I step outside and gravity takes hold. My feet feel like they are encased in cement, my body as though it is burdened by an old fur coat. Movement is slow and murky, as if pulled by an underwater current. Mother Nature is having a hot flash.
It's hot. Too hot for shoes. We peel off clothes, wishing we could peel off our sweating skin, allowing it to fall from our bodies in one untidy lump. I am sticky and dripping, even though I showered half an hour ago. The fine hairs around my temples are damp. Everything is damp.
It's hot. The air hangs stagnant and still, without a hint of a breeze to break the heaviness. The sounds of hot are nonexistent. Windless air makes no noise. The view is hazy. I see the world through a yellow lens created by a mix of heat and humidity.
It's hot. We eat cold pasta salad for the third night in a row, although no one is hungry. We hold our forks with a listless grip. Our appetites are on hiatus and our taste buds have become as lethargic as the wind. Sweat accumulates on my upper lip. It is saltier than the salad.
It's hot. The pets are panting. They stretch their limbs and lie flat to increase surface contact with the cool tile floor. They are restless and move from room to room in search of a better spot. I replenish their water many times each day. They drink with the most enthusiasm I've witnessed in the last 48 hours.
It's hot. We think and talk about the weather. Someone says they heard the hardware store sold out of air conditioners. How about the humidity? Have you seen the heat index? Better mow the lawn early in the morning, before it becomes a real scorcher.
It's hot. The local beach is crowded with smart citizens looking to have fun and beat the heat. Children run and laugh. They spit water and throw sand when the lifeguard isn't looking. Mothers dip their toes apologetically into the water. Dads throw toddlers high in the air. I see my neighbor has a new tattoo. Sunscreen is had by all.
It's hot. The weatherman on TV points at the map. Our region is bright red; it matches his tie. He uses words like sweltering, oppressive and blistering. He is impressed with the weather. This sort of thing hasn't happened for years. He uses his map again to show us how this might not let up for days.
It's hot. We wished for this during the winter months, and it is here. The heat, brought on like the tide, pushing forward in whatever way Mother Nature intends. It will be over soon. The heat wave can't last forever. There will come a time when we no longer sit by the fan or crank the air conditioner to high as we drive two miles to the grocery store. We will trade in our shorts for jeans and, at some point, shoes will become a necessity. We know it will happen. In our hearts, we know it will be soon.
At the moment, however, I am sweating and it's difficult to think of anything besides wiping my brow. It is hot.
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
