So. You all may never, ever see another finished object from me. I am knitting, I swear. I’ve finished the handspun Lara, and a shrug in support of autism, and the one-skein wonder, and I can’t show them to you. Yes, all my cameras work. The objects fit. They’re actually awfully nice.
But it’s too effin’ hot to put any of them on to take a picture in daylight. I mean, NORma. Damn.
I’m such a wuss when it comes to heat. I loved what Cuzzin Tom said the other day about barely being able to dab the strawberry ice cream to his lips — that’s the way I feel. Ice is too heavy to put in the glass.
But things HAVE changed for the better. I have made an astounding discovery. Well, I can’t even claim credit for it. Lala gave me a stand-up fan (maybe she wanted me to quit whining — I just realized that). And then at work, Marama made a stunning comment. She said she stood in front of her fan in the bathroom when she was getting ready for work.
And I said, "Oh, my GOD, I could MOVE the fan!"
Because I am just so amazingly intelligent, I had placed the fan next to the bed, in case I got hot while sleeping during my day-sleeps, when in fact that’s usually the only time I’m comfortable in summer, because I’m lying on top of my sheets, with verra little on, not moving or thinking (do you ever wake up and feel your consciousness come back, and feel your temperature rise as you lie there thinking? Weird). But as soon as I get up and move an arm or a leg or god forbid walk a few steps, I’m an unhappy, grumpy sweatball. Ask Lala. She’ll tell you. Normally cheerful to the point where strangers want to brain me in the post office, I turn into a whiny whimpering puddle. "It’s hotttttt. Why does it have to be soooo hottttttt? It’s still hottttttt. I’m too hottttttt. No. That’s wrong. You’re doing it wrong. Sheesh. Gah. I wanted the OTHER ice cream sandwich. It’s hotttttttttt." I would stomp my feet in this state and throw myself on the floor, kicking and flailing, but that would be exertion, so screw that. I just whine and pout. Attractive, to be sure. (And this is in Oakland, where my interior house temperature never goes above 90, I’m sure. I would flipping fry in Texas or somewhere actually hot.)
Anyway. I moved the fan. I moved it into the living room while I was on the computer. Lo and behold, I checked email without getting all whiny and sweaty and horrible. Then after I got out of the bath, I took the fan into the bathroom and pointed it at myself while I put on makeup and did my hair. I was comfortable. I didn’t have the rivulets of sweat running down my just-washed body that I usually do, Oh, I hate that.
I even took a nap last weekend after work on the couch in front of my new best friend, Mr. Fan, and I was a little… wait for it….. chilly! I loved it so much I didn’t even turn it off. I just shivered and smiled.
This to say: Good luck getting me to take pictures of sweaters in July.
Get a Free Short Story!
Subscribe to get a free copy of Socks for Alex, a Cypress Hollow Short Story, compatible with all devices!