2018-04-13 / Commentary

Crazy for the heat


Man, am I ready to start complaining about the heat. I live below the Mason-Dixon Line for a reason, and it’s not to watch baseball games dressed like an Eskimo.

I should be in shorts by now contemplating SPFs in the 100 range.

Freezing in March?

A high of 55 in April?

What gives?

I’m ready to start sweating as soon as I step out of the shower. I’m ready to fry my bare tootsies on a concrete driveway. I’m ready for mosquitos the size of humming birds and humidity stickier than a kid’s face covered in melted ice cream. I’m ready for a heat index of 112. I’m ready for a Palmetto Bug to turn its head and look at me...

OK, maybe I’m not ready for that last one, but you get the point.

When is this global warming thing going to kick in? Come on, Al! I don’t know what the truth is, but this lingering cold is certainly inconvenient.

Of course, by the time this column gets published, I probably will be complaining about the heat...but gleefully so.

My oldest daughter went north for college. She attends a school that has four-foot poles attached to fire hydrants so they can be located in the snow.

I had no comprehension of such a thing when I first visited campus. I guessed the poles were some kind of GPS location thing, but I found out later they’re strictly for the significant snow drifts common in that area. Snow of that magnitude down South would be apocalyptic. Up there, it’s a Tuesday.

That explains why their average temperature from December to January is about six degrees below freezing. That average doesn’t hit the 60s until June and heads back into the 50s by October. In other words, my daughter should expect to be cold for a good chunk of the year, and she might just want to take a course in igloo design.

We have no such expectation down here in the Deep South. That’s one reason my other daughter plans to stay in-state for college, and my son announced he was going to be looking for a school in South Florida after a recent trip to visit his oldest sister and the fire hydrant poles.

It takes a special kind of person to live in that kind of cold.

I am not that person, and, apparently, neither are my other children.

Then again, some may say it takes a special kind of person to live through a southern summer and have to fight off a heat stroke during football season. While much of the country is enjoying fall foliage and sweaters, we’re frying in the stands faster than our chicken at the tailgate.

Maybe we shouldn’t ask who’s special, but who’s crazier?

So, if it’s crazier to think a constant layer of sweat under a sweltering sun is much more comfortable than long underwear in four-foot snow drifts, then send me straight to the loony bin...just please make sure it’s somewhere down south.

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