Maybe I'm Made of Chocolate?

I was not made to deal with heat. I tend to melt. My hair reacts badly to humidity and frequently makes me look like a distant relative of the Cowardly Lion. I hate putting on make up in the summer because it melts off faster that I can put it on. I was just not built to deal with heat.

Neither was my house. I don't have air conditioning. I am melting for the seventeenth summer in a row and it's starting to really piss me off. It's 91 degrees outside, and probably roughly the same inside my house. I hate getting out of the air conditioned car, walking into the ridiculously hot garage, thinking 'Oh, sweet Jesus, I hope it's not this hot in the house,' walking into the house, and finding that IT IS IN FACT, THAT HOT. I hate the feeling of sticky, sweaty skin. I hate the way water bottles and cans of pop and glasses sweat profusely on the table, leaving an obnoxious ring of water that you have to wipe up.

I don't mind the heat at the beach. It's supposed to be hot there. There's a breeze. An ocean breeze. In Ohio, there is no ocean, and consequently, no ocean breeze. But at the beach, I can go from air conditioned condo, to air conditioned car, to air conditioned restaurant, to pool or beach. And it's okay.

Part of the problem too is that I really don't like shorts. I hate my legs. Well, my thighs at least. So I try to avoid wearing shorts. And my arms are nasty too, so I avoid tank tops. And I look weird with my hair up. I LIKE TO WEAR SWEATERS, PANTS, AND MY HAIR DOWN, OKAY?! That's why I like cooler weather. It's acceptable to wear this kind of attire, and I swear I have never craved snow more than I have in the past couple of weeks. And I want to bake. I don't know why. But I do, and it's just TOO DAMN HOT TO BE DOMESTIC.

Okay. Sorry about the ranting, but I'm hot and sweaty and angry, and heat seemed an acceptable thing to rant about without sounding too clinically insane. Schmurrrr.