Summertime means humidity, which makes you sticky, hot, and if you’re special, swell up like a balloon so that your hands and feet resemble sausages.
I love it.
Hogwash, you say. It’s miserable. You can never cool down, and the air is so thick you can’t even breathe. No one likes the heat and humidity. But I do. Bring it.
Now, look. I’m not a masochist. I am shouting “I LOVE HUMIDITY!!!” from the comfort of my air conditioned home. We have hardwood floors, for goodness’ sakes. Humidity will ruin them, according to my Home Depot-assigned install man. The windows are firmly closed and the air inside is cool and dry. I’m practical that way.
But there’s no A/C in my car. My husband borrowed it for a day and when he brought it back the air-conditioning didn’t work. Did I run to the garage to get it fixed? Nope. Power down those windows and let the humid air in.*
We vacation in Florida sometimes. In August. When we tell people this, they say, “Ah mah gah, no way! Flahridah is SAH HUMID in Ahgahst!!” I’m not sure why the people we talk to about our vacations have eighties' Valley Girl accents.
To me, there is nothing worse than being cold. Cold temperatures chill the air, your toes, your hands, your bones. Nothing can warm you when you’ve been out in the damp cold, wind attacking you from every direction. I sit in my house in the winter wrapped in blankets and sweaters, fluffy socks on my feet until May. Every car ride is a battle of wills against the seatbelt, winter coat, scarf, and gloves, and an encroaching feeling of claustrophobia.
So when the heat comes, and with it the humidity, I raise my hands to the sun and whatever other atmospheric conditions contribute to the humidity, and let it all soak in.
In the humidity, my hair is big. The frizz factor is high, and I relish it. I have an unfortunate head of hair that only curls on the underside, and it would surely dreadlock if left to its own devices in a tropical climate, but look how BIG it is! It’s majestic! Who needs volume spray when the humidity is 90%? I just step outside for five minutes and WHOOMP there it is! I put up pictures of Diana Ross and will her big-hairness into my own follicles.
|I love it so much. Is that weird?|
In the humidity, my skin is hydrated. It glows and plumps, all on its own. In the cold I am the Crypt-Keeper, hopelessly dry and sunken and maybe even a little bit yellow. In the humidity there are no crow’s feet, no lines, and a radiance that originates from the sweat emanating from every pore.
In the humidity, I drink water like it’s another job I don’t get paid for. It contributes to an overall healthy attitude, boosts my mood, and makes me feel great. In the cold I drink vodka to warm my bones and have the personality of a Russian mobster.**
So when it’s humid outside, like it promises to be during this and every summer, you won’t find me sitting around complaining about how I can’t take the heat. Pass me another bottle of water, don’t mind the cloud of hair curling away from my head and into your personal space, and help me pry these rings off my fingers. I’m losing circulation here.
*Why yes, this is a thinly-veiled dig against my husband, who clearly can’t be trusted to take care of things. Sigh. I can’t have anything nice.
**No one likes them. Every James Bond movie I’ve ever seen says so.