Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy starred in a movie with that title, but from what I could see, neither one of them cracked a sweat. In one scene, McCarthy slices off Bullock's pants and opens up her shirt, so she looked more attractive in a night club, but none of these changes seems at all connected to the temperature--either outside or in.
For me, the heat means temperatures rising into the 90s and humidity levels closing in on 100%. As damp as it is, we'll never reach the dew point of 72. It's 10:30 at night and 77 degrees with 85% humidity according to my weather app. The claim is it feels like 77, but it feels like 85 to me, since I'm sweating on my patio while my dog pants at my feet.
Hot summer weather should bring back fond memories and usually does--long evenings at the grandparents in Bellaire playing slap happy and rope swing and (later) spin the bottle. Or weekends at the beach during those months at Grandpa Joe's, trying to surf but mostly chasing after the board and wondering why the locals sacrificed one to the waves. Or even afternoons beside the apartment pool for the first three years I taught high school, diving in when the neighbors left and swimming 50 short laps before dinner.
Now my garden soaks in the sun. Japanese eggplants lengthen. Tomatoes start to ripen. A third bean crop grows close to harvest. Tiny peppers form at the end of tiny branches. And finally the squash and melon transform flowers into fruit. But I sweat, sitting on my patio wishing for a cool evening when putting my hair down didn't mean taking a salty bath.
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