Image courtesy of Just_Go. Licensed under CC BY SA 2.0.
Summer is officially here. As far as I am concerned, it can peace out right now, because it has only been like two weeks and I am already beginning to form a horrifying exoskeleton of sweat and spray-on sunscreen that doesn’t even come off with a razor (because it’s summer now, and I have to pretend that I care about shaving for three months instead of being a hairy be-skirted weirdo like I normally am).
I will, with any luck, peel the extra layer from my body as soon as the temperature drops back below 80 and the swaddling blanket of Atlanta summer humidity retreats. I plan to emerge from my chrysalis like an unburnt, smelly butterfly and retreat into tights and cashmere until it ceases to be socially acceptable.
You know what I like about fall? The fact that I can be outside for more than 10 minutes without having to think of myself as having a carapace. (Also: pumpkins.)
Last night, I helped handle parking for the theatre where I volunteer. Mostly this involves hitting a key fob to a receptor pad for people who are either theatre patrons or convincing liars. Up until now, I had thought that my experience with parking had maxed out its misery quotient when I had to stand outside during Snowpocalypse in ballet flats like an idiot human (I lost feeling in my toes).
But no. Last night the summer put up a strong contending bit of awfulness when I was flown into by no fewer than 14 bugs over the course of an hour. I’m not a small person, and you think they could have avoided me. But no. Plink went their tiny bodies into my head and shoulders and—perhaps most memorably—chest, in the case of an adventuresome wee mite that chose my left bra cup as its final resting place.
I was trying to fish my unfortunate six-legged friend out of my top when an old improv instructor walked over to say hello. He was kind enough to ignore the fact that I appeared to be performing a self-exam, badly.
Sure, there are things that I’m excited about for summer. Patio drinking and pretending that I might go camping and possibly burning the shit out of myself in Savannah are all exciting. There are many new wheat beers and gin-based cocktails that await me over the next few months to help celebrate the weather/numb me to the discomfort of everything being sticky all the time. But mostly? Mostly I’m waiting for decorative gourd season.