Just a little hot and angry
Istood on the edge of a smoldering volcano, and I did not like what I saw. Southern Maryland’s sticky summers aren’t anything new, but I must block out the suffocating angst from one year to the next. I’m even less tolerant as I get older.
Like many office dwellers, we engage in thermostat wars at work. My colleagues and I have very different internal temperatures, it seems; I can be sweating profusely in a sleeveless top while my deskmate — who shall remain nameless — pulls on a cardigan.
A sweater! In July! I mean, you’re great, Sara (oops, did I . . . ? Never mind), but a cardigan? And Tiffany is no better, I assure you.
In their defense, I’m always hot when others say they’re comfortable. It’s a curse. Ceiling fans run in our house yearround, and I know it’s not a party until my feet are so slick that I step out of my flip-flops.
I come by this naturally, I think, if one were to consider my grandmother. Like Maw Maw, I love the spring and fall because I can get away with running around sans jacket. Sometimes I can pass our mild winters this way, too.
My brother-in-law’s 30th birthday is tomorrow (happy birthday, Eric!), and my sister and Eric’s family pulled out all the stops for his party last Sunday. Like a smaller, sweatier wedding reception, the get-together at Gilbert Run Park was a great time . . . especially if you’re a summer flower. I am not. We checked the weather forecast carefully for days beforehand, worried the heat index would climb above 100 again. With no air-conditioned facilities at the park, we were definitely at Mother Nature’s mercy. It didn’t get as hot as we’d feared, but the sun was relentless.
Some folks get agitated when they’re hungry, taking it out on those innocently trying to help them (see: “hangry”). Instead, I get “hongry” — hot and angry. This hongriness has been documented in family photo albums and anecdotes detailing my bad attitude everywhere from reunions to beaches to theme parks.
When it gets bad, the hongry beast can only be appeased by polar bears and Santa’s elves. Preferably ones bearing Slurpees and ice packs.
My worst offense was probably on our last day in London five years ago. It was just a few days before Prince William’s April wedding, and the sun beat mercilessly against the streets outside Westminster Abbey. It had to be 85 degrees that Easter Sunday, though who can convert Celsius without an international smartphone? (Probably many of you. But I couldn’t, trust me.)
Like dutiful travelers, we consulted the forecast before packing — and saw, surprise of all surprises, cool and rainy weather predicted for most of our UK trip. We were allowed just one small suitcase each for the tour, so packing extra clothes “just in case” wasn’t an option. I had to hope clothing didn’t get dirty before a second wear as it was.
Could I have thrown in some sandals? A pair of shorts? Maybe. But Westminster Abbey-acceptable attire took up far more room than that. And so, to my utter dismay, I spent our last day in the city in a long-sleeved dress, black leggings and boots. In a rare heat wave.
Because it was a holiday, we were greeted by “Closed” signs on door after door as we went in search of lunch. In all my careful research, I’d failed to consider the fact that many places don’t open on Sundays . . . let alone this important Sunday. It was a ghost town.
We were sweating. We were hungry. The only map I had was for the Underground, so we had no choice but to trudge blindly along Victoria Street. My parents, sister and I peered into one dark restaurant after another until we stumbled upon a basement Italian joint with a sign welcoming visitors down a flight of steps. We were the only diners, meaning we received immediate attention, and I’ve never gazed so lovingly at a glass of water in my life.
I never thought heaven would feel like a windowless cell with expensive, lackluster food, but it was cool and quiet with bottles of “still” water (as opposed to sparkling, we learned) flowing. Ah, sweet relief.
But before we could kiss American soil once again, we still had to take the Tube back to our hotel, retrieve our held suitcases and drag them across the city. We went up and down all manner of stairs before arriving at the airport hotel, carefully chosen because it had a shuttle that could deliver us to our terminal early the next morning.
I would have sold my soul for a tank top that day — just as I would have gladly done the Ice Bucket Challenge on Sunday.
Still, I got through both experiences without too many hongry outbursts. And no one has disowned me yet.
But this heat wave is ongoing. Let’s not count those chickens just yet, eh?