In a car. Martha's Vineyard.
1:44 pm. Saturday. 2012. 26 May.
Surely, I am not the only one who feels like she's being baked from the inside out every time she graces the steamy sidewalks of New York with her presence? I might have melted a full inch waiting for a light to change on Madison this afternoon. That does not bode well for someone who's barely 5'4".
If my tone sounds self-important, it's only because I'm feeling mightily neglected by the weather gods. When can a gal get a break from this oppressive heat? Woe is me.
In the dead dank of winter, when it's dark before I enter my office building and then dark again by the time I emerge at the end of the day, sure, I yearn for her. For Summer. I dream and long for her warmth just like all the other shortsighted fools who forget about the chest zits, blistery red nose pimples, and twice daily showers. If you could see my skin right now...oh, the horror. And don't get me started on the stink of human sweat trapped inside poorly ventilated elevators. And the dog poo in the sun, oh, the dog poo in the sun! Yesterday, I barely missed a smoldering heap. I was wearing capri sandals and threw up a little thinking about the close proximity of my bare feet to the wee excrement atoms of our canine friends.
All these unkind affairs of Summer, these are the parts of her that make me turn up my nose and wonder how people manage to live in a city like this so happily and joyously among the wretched smells and dirt. And then I remember: because they spend halcyon summer weekends at their delicious beach homes in the Hamptons.
So, the moral of this story is that I need a beach house. And not one of those six-to-a-bedroom deals either, because I'm not ten anymore.