God, I hate Summer. There, I said it.
Don’t get me wrong, I like the longer daylight hours, rooftop bars on a 78-degree day, and Yacht Rock. But other than that, Summer can fuck right off.
I am my worst self in the hot, wet heat. In every way.
Physically, I’m a monster. My entire genetic makeup betrays me when the humidity rises above 51%. I have a Fall/Winter body. In the Summer, my body bloats and swells like a full-body pustule. My clothes feel tight. And I’m acutely aware of how my undercarriage is doing—not great most of the time. Summer clothes confuse me. My wardrobe has become jorts and vests. I can’t even LOOK at a pair of tight jeans without getting a yeast infection. GAH
As soon as the humidity rises, my true self is revealed, the underboob sweat appears, the swamp ass is summoned, the armpits itch, and boom, the curls cut loose. I feel exposed. I feel vulnerable. I hate it. Like Daryl Hannah in the movie Splash when, Eugene Levy pours water on her and reveals that she’s a mermaid in front of all of New York.
Well, that’s me, but instead of a Mermaid, I transform into Richard Simmons. A sweating oldie with voluminous frizz.
Also, don't invite me to do nice things from about June 1 to September 22. I arrive smelly, wet, and frizzy everywhere I go. Unless it’s a construction site or a party to weed your garden, it simply wouldn’t feel appropriate in my current physical state.
Physiologically, I feel like I can’t breathe in heat and humidity. I’m perpetually annoyed by how pointless showers feel. And with my 26 part skincare regimen multiple showers in a day is a daunting undertaking. I leave my home feeling fresh for about 2.6 seconds and before I’ve crossed the street I’m already dripping. Waiting at a piss-soaked hot box of a subway platform only to be cooled by swirling rat bacteria and skin mites feels less than glam. I try not to think about it as I let myself enjoy the small gust of wind—no matter how much toxicity it carries. I can’t stand the feeling of being sticky and hot out of context, as in not by a pool or beach or body of water of some kind. Everything in my body and mind feels off, and it turns to anger. I get heatrage-y, like Hangry, but with Heat. Heatgry? Hotgry? I don’t know what it’s called, but I get it.
This is why I travel everywhere with a fan. And have to go into debt to pay my utility bills. I do it, not only for myself, but for the safety and respect of those around me. I’m doing the best I can, given the unholiest of climate circumstances and my threadbare ability to deal with discomfort.
I’ve been this way ALWAYS. Since I was born, my entire body and soul have rejected sunshine and wet, hot temps. I’m not saying I’m a vampire, but you also can’t prove that I’m not. As a child, I got head-to-toe heat rashes, sunspots, eczema, and had to wear a t-shirt to the pool (to cover my skin and bloat). Not much has changed, except I traded in the t-shirt for a zero fucks attitude.
Regardless of how cellularly ill-equipped I’d be to handle it, I was decidedly hatched and raised in the tropics. Born in Costa Rica and raised in Miami. Miami, if you haven’t been, is mostly wet and hot except for the 2 weeks, sometime between December and January, when the weather dips to about 70 degrees. The rest of the year is filled with warm, oppressive, womb-like conditions. Sometimes, it felt like you needed gills to breathe. So fucking unpleasant. I left that year round suffocating environment as soon as I was able to.
I don’t know how people enjoy this HEAT. I suspect people with 10% body fat (not as much insulation) and flowing frizz-free hair enjoy it. AND GOOD FOR YOU! The rest of us average humans with sweat glands, nostrils, and difficult hair follicles are out here STRUGGLING. Don’t deny it. We are. I can smell it. We’re all just out here white-knuckling what’s left of our self-confidence and will to live.
Moving to New York gave me a wonderful reprieve. It got me out of the year-round bad hair, itchy skin, and swampy-ass rut. At least now, I can be my best self for 3 out of 4 seasons. At least we HAVE seasons. At least we have that.
We just have to make it through another Summer in the City.
In the meantime, if I arrive frazzled, cranky, or on edge to our agreed-upon hangout, please bear with me. I’ll be okay after I get some AC, ice water, and comfort in the thought that this too shall pass. Fall is only 85 days away.
As always,
Live, laugh, repress the urge to murd3r everyone around you.
XO,
Me.