Stupid Hot Days, Summer Colds, and Wax People

Well, we all knew it had to happen eventually. We’d gotten to the middle of July and yet for the most part, this summer had been remarkable well-mannered.  Sure, it’s been warm, but not, like, unpleasantly, irrationally, unwholesomely, comes-into-your-home-and-eats-your-last-Thin-Mint-without-asking-you rudely, objectionably hot. 

[For the record, I’m not allowed to use adverbs in my novels anymore, so I have to use them all up between here and Facebook and Twitter posts.  So, you can roll your eyes disappointedly about it all you like and huff sadly, but that’s how it is. Sorry.]

Anyway, back to the topic at hand, it didn’t just become hot here the last couple of days so much as I woke up one morning and realized that the surface of the sun had descended upon us at the same time that the air coalesced into some form of super-heated gelatinous torture weapon that was effectively breathing lava.

Of course, because sometimes the Fates like to point and laugh at me like those three mean girls on the playground in grade school—like they could dribble a basketball either—it wasn’t enough to have to just deal with a hostile environment akin to a sultry afternoon stroll along the face of Mercury. No, as an added bonus, I was also blessed with a irritating summer cold.

Yes, the dreaded summer cold.

I don’t know exactly why it is the case (I suspect the NSA has the answer and just won’t tell us out of spite) but for some reason, summer colds last longer than winter colds.  Which is to say that I feel like I’ve had my sinus packed with immobile jelly since at least Columbus sailed the ocean blue and then went about the lucrative task of subjugating the natives for fun and profit.  And that was, when, 1492? 

Yeah, so six centuries. I’ve had this cold six centuries. Sounds about right.

If that wasn’t enough, my immune system went completely on vacation Monday and must have left that one undertrained, fresh-from-the-temp-agency White Blood Cell in charge.  Because somebody let in a real hum-dinger of a virus and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.

I mean, on the plus side, having a fever when it’s 90+ degrees outside is kind of refreshing in that Hey look! I’m should be sweating and I’m not; this must be how skinny people feel all the time  kind of way. But before long, that all-over body ache kind of ruined the experience for me. If that’s how skinny people feel they can keep it.

Anyway, as I was standing the parking lot after work Monday evening, looking at my car and thinking that it was going to be so miserable inside the sweltering, closed-up confines of my sitting-in-direct-sunlight-for-the-last-hours Grey Middle-Aged Guy Sedan, I might be better off just standing there, outside, on the surface of the sun, attempting to breathe the gelatinous lava-air.  And that was almost ALMOST the moment I cast off my humanity and went to live amongst the wax peoples in that museum where they have to keep the place cool.

But I didn’t.

Because being hot? Not cool.

Being hot while having the dreaded summer cold? Also not cool.

Being hot while having the dreaded summer cold and also some kind of hateful virus? Super not cool like whoa.

But being hot while having the dreaded summer cold and also some kind of hateful virus? Still probably better than being a wax person.

Because, seriously, wax people are creepy.

Also, all those other problems are temporary. Wax? Not so much.

And now that my cold is on the run and the hateful virus has been beaten?

It’s time for a few beers and some ice cream. 

Because that? IS cool.

Pud’n