During small talk about the weather in Arizona, someone is bound to say “At least it’s a dry heat. It’s better than humidity”. God forbid those trite words come from your dry, cracked lips. But we’ve all said them to the cashier while waiting for her to finishing ringing you up. Maybe next time you will remember to use self-checkout to avoid being unoriginal. You hate yourself for even using the words “dry heat”. You’ll probably use the same line when you meet your girlfriends mom for the first time. If her mom says it first you’ll be forced to act as if she has said something profound—something no one in the state of Arizona has ever uttered. Your girlfriend will leave the room and you will be forced to awkwardly talk about the dry heat with her Botox-faced mom. The worst part about it is knowing that you will have to repeat this same interaction after you guys break up in four months.
Four months is the same amount of time that the heat will drain you of your energy. You will never be at 100% unless you refuse to go outside at all—which might be the smartest thing to do. And if you think you can avoid the heat by going out before sunrise, you are in the wrong state buddy. The coldest you can get in mid June is 90 degrees at 5am.
You will always be covered in sweat—everything sticky and uncomfortable. You know you look like a gross fucking idiot. Your hair sticks to your face and you probably stink. The only people who look good covered in sweat are beautiful people. You can’t get away with being a sweaty pig if you are just kind of cute or moderately handsome. You just look disgusting.
After living here for 23 years you begin to realize that 100 degrees and 110 degrees really don’t feel any different. They both feel like shit. It’s only when you get up to around 115 degrees that you realize how thin the line between life and death really is. How the streets aren’t filled with homeless corpses during the summer months is a mystery to me.
There’s no shaded parking at the grocery store. “It’s fine” you think “I’ll only be in there for about ten minutes”. No point in fumbling with your windshield cover for three minutes. You can avoid looking like a fool.
You get back 11 minutes later and the car handle is hot. You burn yourself on the seatbelt. Your steering wheel is so hot that you consider just letting go and crashing to alleviate the burning sensation in your hands. If you have an old car like me, your AC is no match for the heat. It can’t possibly get cold enough before you get home in 20 minutes. Your back pours sweat from being in the hot seat. You’ll have to change your drenched shirt out for a dry one when you get home. You should probably shower too for the third time today.
Only two more months of this you tell yourself.
“At least it’s not humid” you groan with the last bit of life force exiting your lungs.
TheSisyphusBlog 