Thoughts On Being Hot (Pun Intended?)

In light of the string of recent ridiculously muggy days, in which it feels like the entire Twin Cities has been placed inside of the armpit of a sumo wrester, I have compiled some thoughts on the subject:

On several occasions I walked out of a building and my glasses fogged up. That had never happened before in my life. There’s nothing like wandering around the Target parking lot with your arms outstretched like a zombie, not able to see, and bumping into parked cars and other similarly blind shoppers.

If I had a mustache, it would probably be curling up.

It reminds me of delivering newspapers in my childhood. It would be as sweltering day, and some little old lady would be sitting in her lawn chair in the shade, sipping on a glass of iced tea. She would see me coming, drenched in sweat, and sweetly ask, “Hot enough for you?” Grrrrrrrrrrr…

Speaking of my childhood in the U.P., we were quite hearty back then. It would be 72 degrees, and we’d be running around, ecstatic because it was what we termed “swimming weather.”

I should try to fry and egg on the sidewalk. If it doesn’t work, I could enlist the help of a magnifying glass.

An overnight low of 78 tonight. Be still, my beating heart!

I haven’t even checked to see how many people are at the pool at my apartment complex. I assume that it’s packed. However, maybe everybody else assumed the same thing, and it’s completely empty. (Except for, of course, a little old lady, sitting in the shade in a lawn chair, who’d ask me if it was hot enough for me.)

Finally, a poem I just composed:

Hot. Hot.
It’s so crazy hot.
Hot enough to melt
The spots off of Spot