summer, i smite thee

 

outside dan's house

Oh I so do not like this heat. But I feel I don’t have permission to wail about it as, according to the Bureau of Meterology (possibly my most loaded website), just a touch less than 30°C and nowhere near the stifling amounts of humidity that a Brisbane summer is known for. Last night, I kept melting into the couch as Dan and I watched the Vietnam episode of Top Gear. My legs stuck so badly to the leather that I felt I was going to peel away layers of skin every time I stood up. I ended up plonking myself on the carpet instead; even though I was now out of range of the fan, I felt marginally better. Any gains, however, in comfort levels were cancelled out every time Jeremy Clarkson mentioned the humidity while on their bike ride through Vietnam, rising my body temperature at least one degree with every mention.

The reason why even the slightest hint of summer temperature makes me miserable is perspiration, pure and simple. Or rather, I don’t perspire, I do the more ladylike thing of glowing like a pig. I resent those fresh-faced girls who — even after an entire Cycle class — look like they’ve been dusted in powder. I’m the poor person covered in sweat during warmup. But goodness, I overheat while watching TV on the couch. I attempted to go shopping today, but because I was walking outdoors I ditched the idea after two stores. Pathetically, my eyes stung because sweat kept getting mixed up with some eyeshadow, and the cycle of walking from the heat into mildly airconditioned stores was already making me feel grouchy and sick. I came home and dug out a long-forgotten ex-flatmate’s blender to make up a coffee drink overloaded with ice, and chilled while the guinea pigs cheerfully chowing into their kibbles outside.

Swimming would be a wonderful possibility, except for the mathematical probability of me getting sunburned = 100%.