It started a couple of weeks ago when I opened the back door to let out the hounds for their morning run. The Kit-Cat clock on the wall (a gift from a friend who recently departed for less storm-prone parts) read only 6:00 or so, and it was already kinda warm in my un-air-conditioned kitchen. But that didn’t even begin to hint at the climatological slap in the face I got when the door popped open and the dogs flew out: a slimy, cloying blanket of mugginess and heat coupled with the shock of oh-my-god-how-quickly-we-forget-what-summer-is-like-down-here.
Now, I grew up in this climate. I’ve spent 30-some-odd years getting used to it. I like it–well, in the sense that I prefer a hot summer to a cold winter. When it gets like this, I do a pretty good job adjusting, slowing down, staying indoors during the noon hours, switching from scotch to vodka (or maybe Pernod). Still…. I mean, is it just me, or does the heat seem more oppressive this time around? Am I the only one asking myself, like, holy crap, can I put myself through this again?
I know I go through this every year, and every year my body does a little more acclimating, and suddenly, the weather isn’t as awful as it seemed. This year, though, I’m thinking there’s something tied to hurricane season, something emotional–kind of a sense-memory, like Proust, but without the floppy hair. For him, a waft of perfume or the taste of a madeleine brought back fond memories of childhood. For me, the feel of 95 degrees and 90% humidity on a bright, cloudless day dredges memories of touring a beautiful, glass-walled museum in Lafayette, Louisiana on August 28, 2005 and watching bands of storm clouds pass overhead on an otherwise bright, cloudless day and feeling sick to my stomach, like someone had just kicked me in the gut, and instinctively saying Hail Marys for the better part of an hour even though I’m not religious, much less Catholic.
Am I the only one?
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