It’s not the heat. I’ve been in searing heat. I’ve been in horrible, awful heat. Just last week when we were in Sacramento it was 112 degrees. ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE. But you know what? There was relief. Because when you stand in the shade in a dry heat it’s suddenly twenty degrees cooler and you feel instantaneous relief. And you know what else? I can breathe in a 112 degree dry heat. Sure, the mere act of walking outside may sear my skin, but at least I can hold a conversation without losing my breath and walk ten feet without wanting to drop dead on the ground.
Not here. Here is where humidity goes to breed. Here is the land of the wet summer air. Yes, kids, there is a difference between dry heat and humid heat. A big difference. Because it’s 7am here and I want to die already just from taking a quick drive to Walgreens.
Did I mention the AC in my car doesn’t work?
I live on an island. Where “island” is a glorified word for “paved over swamp.” The humidity is not a surprise. It’s been a constant for every single summer of my entire life. But here I am, newly annoyed by it as if it’s some big surprise that it’s god damn wet out there. Hot and wet. Yea, those two words together are great if you’re a guy on a date but when you’re talking about the weather, no bueno.
Give me 112 degrees with no humidity any day of the week over this shit.
It’s June 24th and I’m sick of your shit, humidity.