This summer seems to have really taken it out of me to the point where I have stopped blow-drying my hair (who needs a blow dryer when you can walk outside and get 2600 watts of hot air?) and I don't think I've looked at a weather forecast since I went to Boston for my sister's wedding.
What's the point? It's like John McCain weather. More of the same.
So I'm sitting in my air conditioning, which might as well be gaseous gold for what electricity costs these days, and wondering at what point the idea of an "evening walk" will be appealing. Running has recently been named one of the 7 Hot-Ass Hobbies of this Highly Hot-Ass City. Parking my car at the gym just means it'll be 124 degrees when I come out. I'm even afraid to leave my fiddle in my car for more than a few minutes, as if I'm carting around a Labrador. The most exercise I get these days is the brisk 50 meter dash I do from my car to my office twice a day.
Needless to say, this Texas summer and I need a break from each other. Like, yesterday. Or maybe back in June. Am I alone? Is anyone else about to wilt like a geranium in a crumbling hanging basket?
Well, either way, don't look to me for help. It's not my day to water.