View from the North 40: Help me! I'm melting, melting … meltiiing

I would like to take this time to go on record as formally declaring that hot weather sucks.

I know, that’s pretty strong language for not a very profound revelation. In my defense, though, if I were allowed, my column today would consist of the headline, my photo retouched digitally to look as if I were actually melting and these words in the largest, boldest print possible: “Hot Weather Sux.”

Yes, I would abbreviate “sucks” because then I would have more room to make the font bigger. I would fill the whole page, if I could, with these giant words of sweaty hostility.

However, I am told, repeatedly, that we here in the editorial department do not consider the printed word to be an art form and by no means are images to be manipulated.

Despite all my efforts to remedy their prudish and simple ways.

I do not know how to express with this boring blandness of simple text and the usual mugshot just how much I hate hot weather and how terribly I melted (which is actually what happened at several points during the heat wave — it's true).

I almost wore shorts in public.

Me.

Shorts.

In plain view of innocent bystanders.

This despite my personal and longstanding convictions to do my part to keep America beautiful by remaining fully clothed while in view of everyone who is not me.

I wore sandals.

It was scandalous — and physically dangerous.

I had to put sunblock on my feet. And, because I went from regular shoes to a week of sandal-wearing I got owies — rub marks and an in-grown hair on a big toe.

Yes, I have hair on my toes. It’s one of my many charms, like my winning personality and my overactive sweat glands.

I try not to be a whiner — though being a b-word level complainer is OK to a certain point. I just think that our words define us, and I don’t like getting caught up in negativity, but for the love of all that’s frosty and cold, I hate hot weather.

Yes, I know, in the dead of winter I dream of going south for some warmth, but that doesn’t negate my distaste of extreme heat.

I had visions last night, after spending the afternoon and evening working in the sun and humidity, then coming home to a house that was warmer than the outdoors.

I had visions of cool places, frost, snow, ice even.

I was ready to pack up and go drive-about (who wants to go walk-about when the car has AC?) looking for a patch of snowpack.

I yearned for a snow-fed stream to soak my feet in until the bones ached and my skin was somehow both numb and tingly.

Somewhere there must be a glacier-fed lake to dive into, gasping so hard for air from the hypothermia-temperature water that you search for a lifeguard, floaties or a swim-buddy to throw you a good-size log to save yourself on — while your buddy laughs at you from shore.

Yes, today, in pursuit of this elusive dream of cool and chill, I am buying a kiddie wading pool and a bag of ice, the jumbo bag. I am making the dream of a chilly Shangi-La a reality right here in my own backyard.

No floaties required.

(Hmmm, perhaps some cool drinks would be in order, though, at [email protected].)