For my regularly scheduled monthly blogpost, I’d like to complain. Actually, I’d like to be asleep. But because I don’t have a choice in that matter (reason to follow), I figured complaining was the next best option. Yes, I learned that process of deduction in law school. You should be very jealous.
Complaining isn’t exactly my bag – oh, hush; I’d liken it more to “a critical eye,” mind you – but at 4:40 a.m. the morning of a bike race, you’re only getting complaints out of me.
Houston, gawd. It’s hot already! Muggy, sticky, peel-yourself-off-things-and-out-of-things nasty. Change-your-t-shirt-three-times-a-day gross. Walk-around-your-house-without-pants-and-mulling-over-going-outdoors-that-way yucky. And it’s only May 2nd.
I mean, seriously, Houston. Why are you doing this already? My appetite has shriveled to nonexistent, I clearly can’t remain in REM mode for an extended period of time, and unless I plan on swimming in the sweat pools forming around my hairline, I can’t exercise, either. I am useless. A slug! A sloth! A waste! Nice time for a bike race, eh?
My air conditioner is happily humming along after a long winter hiatus, my fan is merrily churning loop after loop of recycled air, and yet, my body temperature rivals a sidewalk at noon in July. Because it’s damn, damn hot.
I’m here to tell you, Houston, that you’re being a real stupidhead. Yeah, it’s almost 5:00 a.m., and yeah, that’s all I’ve got. You stupidhead.
I’m no native Houstonian; this much is true. I would normally call myself an acclimated Midwestern expat, under better circumstances. The Texas transition from pleasant to insufferable in May is one with which I am intimately familiar. Three years in, and you’d think I’d have gotten it right by now. You’d think.
And yet, at every reliable onset of every predictable humid snap, at the cusp of every pre-summer, it never ceases to amaze me just how icky a city can get. And how ill-equipped for this meteorlogical torture test I am.
Sigh.
I’d sign off with “good night,” but let’s be honest – this is probably “good morning” more than anything.
Argh.
Oh well. At least you can type out entire blogposts on your iPhone without pulling out that leg-scorching laptop, right?
There I go, making lemonade outta lemons already.
I’m awake, I’m tired, and I’m getting older by the minute. I can see it in my hands and on my face. There’s a small earth quaking in my belly, and I can’t get a read on it. But it prevents me from sleeping, which is all that really matters at 12:52 a.m.
