I have several half-completed projects (included my exciting Spring Cleaning undertaking) that I began with such certainty in the spring. Now, with the heat making much of the house a sauna, even with the AC on, my enthusiasm is waning and lethargy is winning.
I stay up later and sleep later and move slower when I am actually up and at 'em.
I just want to read, and stay as still as possible so the heat won't notice me and will just rise over my head and keep going.
I don't want to heat up the kitchen to cook or wash dishes, and I certainly don't want to get into a hot car.
My tattoos are in danger of fading from sun-exposure, but despite slathering myself with sunscreen my arms get too brown, my feet have white marks from my Chacos-- and yet my legs glow in the dark.
I can't even enjoy the evening cool because I am the tasty treat that all mosquitoes desire. I itch, scratch, bleed, have massive allergic reactions, scar, repeat. . .
Ah yes. Summer. How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
If it weren't for fresh veggies and fruits, I'd move to Greenland or Alaska. No, by golly, I'd go to that research station in Antarctica and when my eight hours of watching instrument panels were over, I'd go to my bunk and read or play a game or cross stitch, while drinking hot tea and snuggling under a blanket with about ten sweaters on. You know, the way life should be.
But, tomatoes out of the garden are so good. So are cucumbers and beans and peas.
Cantaloupes, watermelons and honeydews that are grown (as opposed to hatched or whatever it is that they do in greenhouses) are astonishing.
When I think of peaches and strawberries that taste like nature meant them to taste, my knees go weak.
For some reason, they just won't grow in the snow.
So, with every wave of heat, I'm trying to remind myself of the taste of tomatoes.
In the meantime, I expect to read a lot of books and do very little housework until I smell that first, crisp hint of autumn in the air.
Ah. . . Autumn. . . Are we there yet?