According to cultural icons Marilyn Monroe and Robert Palmer, Some Like it Hot. Well, at the risk of trying to sound like Dr. Seuss, I do not.
My theory is that the more northern your heritage, the more you agree with me. If your natural skin color is best described as “lunar,” you feel heat like a hound. The temperature rises and leaves you dripping, panting and shedding everything but those extra pounds that further enhance your discomfort. Those of you with skin tones that range from caramel to cocoa sound yummy enough to top my latte, but leave a bitter taste with me by daring to ripen just when I have proven myself perishable.
While I shuffle through the torrid summer days at the pace of a sloth, hugging the perimeter of buildings that offer only enough protection from the sun to shade a Hollywood waif or the average kindergartener, you exude an annoying aura of vitality. You jog, frolic in the park and generally bask in the warmth of the midday sun, leaving me to feel like I ought to summer in Transylvania. I would consider relocating there if the schools were good and I could abstain from the sucking of blood while still adopting the flowing black cape. After all, isn’t a jet-black sheath that creates a slimming vertical silhouette every girl’s dream cover-up?
The dilemma is that covering up from head-to-toe fits nobody but the Amish’s definition of sexy. By coupling the soaring temperatures with our western culture’s insistence that summer is the sexiest of seasons, I am forced to exhibit vast expanses of clammy skin. And somehow, despite all dermatological warnings, I still believe that “mommy’s soft tummy” and arms that often double as pillows look somewhat closer to Hollywood’s standard when three shades darker than their God-given and postpartum state. Too bad the tanning process requires spending time outdoors in sweltering conditions that leave me feeling like only the most literal definition of “hottie.”
Part of it, surely, is the unsightliness of my discomfort. If I could suffer internally, it would be one thing. But no, I have to leave behind a cheek print after sitting too long on man-made fabrics and display a forehead shiny enough to cause onlookers to squint. My armpits, too, feel the need to announce any temperature over seventy degrees. To the deodorant makers of the world, I say test your products on people who actually have auxiliary sweat glands, or stop the false advertising. I listen to your commercials, and would be thrilled to raise my hand if I were
“Sure.” Well, I am sure of one thing…that I blew through your product ten steps outside my front door.
Alas, somewhere within the first three letters of “sexy” lies a word that implies a need for physical contact. Those who know me well (yet didn’t pass through my birth canal) wouldn’t dare get their 98.6 degrees near this Wicked Witch from the North on a three-digit day. And someday my Munchkins, too, will realize that mom doesn’t sic the flying monkeys on them if they avoid skin-to-skin summer contact. One thing is sure: my “no-touchy” policy is great for birth control, but tends to be tough on a marriage. Though my husband hasn’t admitted it, I’m sure he was hoping that our summer project of installing central air would make me a little more like Glenda or, perhaps, like some sort of naughty-but-nice little sorceress. Too bad a lady can’t tell you which one he ended up with.
Psst! Hey, babe. Set the thermostat to 65. I just got the cape out of the dryer and I’m coming to bed.
Summer in Seussville
I do not like the heat on me.
It makes me sweat, can’t you see?
I do not like to stick to the seat,
Nor wear repellent and smell like Deet.
I do not like a shiny face,
Nor when there’s a ring on the armpit place.
I do not like to hate to move,
Till the A.C. is on I have no groove.
Causes Shana Moore Supports