I'm a little slow today. I just switched to Sanka. So...have a heart?

Sunday, July 12, 2009

White, white, blinding light.

Enter the dog days.

From mid July to early November in Miami, the question isn't going to be whether it's going to be balls-stickingly hot, but just how balls-stickingly hot it's going to be - and if there's going to be a breeze. Answers: "Very," and "No."

Because I might as well be a hair-shirt wearing, flagellating member of Opus Dei, I moved to Miami - I'm noticing a pattern in my life - no major decision of mine is made, without totally disregarding certain crucial facts, about why that decision will later make me miserable - highlights include 1) Going to law school; 2) Going to law school in Miami; 3) Remaining in Miami; 4) Becoming a lawyer; and 5) Buying real estate... in Miami.

Re: Miami? I am a schvitzy Jew. For you non-Jews, that means "sweaty."

In high school, when I lived in Maryland, it was tolerable - I got three quarters of the year off from sweating profusely, with the notable exception of the time around Christmas, during trips to the Mall, when for some reason, the Rouse Company insisted on keeping interior temperature a wallpaper-peeling 92 degrees, and I, for some reason, would refuse to take off my multi-layer Columbia jacket...

Going to College in Madison was a breeze, because the average temperature there was 6.

And then, inexplicably, I moved to Miami, where it's not only hot, but hot and humid. For three quarters of the year.


For nearly seven years, I have fought the reality of Miami's summer weather, and for seven years, it's been like trying to drain the ocean with a tablespoon.

I'm making no progress, and getting exhausted.

Today, I had an epiphany. I was walking down Lincoln in one of the few white shirts I own, and it was... tolerable. The white shirt made me think I could be so much happier during the summer if I just adapted. So - I'm done fighting, and I'm done caring that I've sweat through my shirt.

I'm going to stock up on light-colored clothing, and call it a day. I don't wear light colors, because I'm prone to being a messy disaster, and darks hide the crayon stains, the juice-pop stains, the grass stains, the chocolate stains, the chocolate milk stains, and the Cheetos stains. Also, I still have a lot of black clothing from the days when I could afford to be Jappy.

But daytime black and blue and green will have to give way to white... and white... and white. I'll be a tan, bearded, sweaty vision in blinding white (and camouflage shorts) for half the year, because the white will keep me markedly cooler, and the camouflage shorts hide swamp-ass.

I will venture out into the Sahara-like sunshine, and go about my business reflecting the sun's heat, and sweating confidently, instead of whimpering on my sofa in the fetal position, and pining for January. I will conquer summer, and become the Dominating Force that I am during the winter, when I am everywhere, all the time, being fabulous and... drunk.

With the help of my future army of white shirts, pique and linen, poplin and broadcloth, I! WILL! RECLAIM! SEPTEMBER! AS! MY! MONTH! (That's when my birthday is!) I WILL HAVE PICNICS OUTSIDE, AND, DARE I SAY IT, WALK AROUND DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS, INSTEAD OF HIDING IN THE DARK SHADOWS LIKE A PALMETTO BUG!

Six months of greatness is just around the corner. As soon as I break out the plastic and do some shirt-shopping.