Heat Wave

Heat wave. Day 4.

Denver has been hotter than Hades. (Contrary to prior belief, the saying isn’t “Hotter than Haiti”, which accidentally slipped out after the earthquake and prompted looks of disgust from everyone around me. “Too soon”, they said.) Suffice it to say that it’s hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock—that seems pretty safe.

It’s tough to get jazzed about the day when there’s a story on the morning news about “heat safety” and how to avoid heat exhaustion. The normally upbeat weatherwoman appears lethargic, scared. Well, Kathy Sabine, you don’t have to warn me twice—once I got heat exhaustion at basketball camp and then ate a spoiled Lunchable that had been sitting in the sun all day, so I simultaneously had heat stroke and food poisoning. You better believe I learned something about heat safety that day. And a 4-foot-tall little girl has no business being at basketball camp to begin with.

My flowers are dead again, in case you were wondering. The pot on my balcony is officially a place where beautiful flowers go to die. It is so depressing. I often whisper “I’m sorry” before leaving for work, but it doesn’t feel like enough, especially because the pots on the balcony below are abounding with healthy petunias. (I get it, 6E, gardening is your thing. You’re a green thumb.) My mom, always the optimist, suggested that we plant a nice “hearty house plant” in the pot, but I don’t have the stomach. I simply cannot kill again.

Sometimes, on my lunch break, I go and lay out on my parents deck because it is close to the office, and I refuse to allow something silly like a job prevent me from getting an irresistible sun-kissed glow. This was a delightful summer routine in June. Recently though, I feel lucky to make it out of those lunch hours alive. I oil up and read my book and convince myself that “this is the life”, but then sweat drips into my eyes and bugs get stuck in the oil and all I want is to be back at my desk crunching numbers.

I have what feels like a life-or-death struggle every day after work because my black car with black leather seats feels more like a Cherokee sweat lodge than a fuel-efficient Jetta. I try to prepare by wearing a power skirt that can be hiked up in the car, but the seats burn my legs and I whimper for the first 5 minutes of my commute home. No! Don’t tell me—yes, another chap stick has melted into the cap. By this point, I’m parched beyond belief, but the only water bottle in sight has been boiling in the car all day, and taking a sip would surely kill me. The AC takes forever to get cold, and hot air blows on me like an unforgiving Sahara wind. Now I’m in survival mode. I put the Jetta in sport, lay on the accelerator and avoid the I-25 like the plague. An icy Perrier and a cold compress await me at home, and this keeps me forging ahead.

Not to mention what this heat wave is doing to my workout routine. A run in the park? I’ll faint. Hot yoga? Get real. Expending any extra energy in this environment can’t be healthy anyways, especially because I drink one cup of coffee in the morning and am automatically dehydrated for the remainder of the day. All I want to do after work is eat snow cones in my underwear while a hot ass spritzes me with Evian upon demand. Is that so much to ask?

I know what some of you are thinking: “Add some humidity and then you’ll know what hot is!!!” or “Spend a summer in Louisiana and then we’ll talk, honey!!!” To that I say, shut up. This isn’t a competition; this is man vs. wild, and last time I checked, we’re all humans. Now, be a doll and fetch me a Zima—it’s gonna be another scorcher.