Welcome to the dog days – where it’s a steamy 95 degrees and raining outside and the water evaporates in a foggy mist as soon as it hits the pavement because the sun is still stubbornly shining through the rain streaming down. That kind of hot.
The kind of hot that makes you sweat at 7 in the morning. The kind of hot that burns your hands on the steering wheel. Melts your favorite lipgloss. Runs your AC into the ground.
Don’t even think about rinsing beach sand off your heels with the water hose that’s been curled up like a snake in the sun all day. You only do that once in life. You never ever ever in a million years do it again.
And that would be beach sand from your sunset walk. Only the masochists go to the beach between 9am and 6pm.
But then there are the runners. The runners defy they laws of dehydration. They’re out all the time. And they’re superhuman. I always expect to see one fall down and die right there on the side of the road. But it’s never been documented. Like I said, they’re superhuman.
The best word we have for this is summer. But the word “summer” has a different meaning here than in other parts of the world, like – oh – say – New England, where “summer” may still include frost on the ground.
So. The way I see it, we should rephrase things based on the academics that live in New England.
They call the weather between June and September “summer” – so a southern winter should be called “summer” – since the weather is about the same.
And I’m guessing we can call this southern occurrence between June and September “Hell”…
AND, I’m thinking we can call the northern experience between December and March “Hell, frozen over.”
Just sayin’
So… How many seasons exist where you are?
