Cut It Out, Sun

Dear White Shirt That I Wore Outside Without An Undershirt On This Crazy Hot Day: You were a mistake. No offense, but it is over 100 degrees out, and I am sweating right through you. It’s only a matter of time before my nipples will be easily seen as you become translucent from my husky man flop sweat.

I wore you because you are made of a light material and the lightest of colors. I didn’t wear my usual white shirt necessitated undershirt because I figured the less layers the more better. These seemed like good ideas as I forced myself to leave my air conditioned room for the first time today in order to see humans and not be a hermit.

But it is stupid hot.

That reminds me…

Dear Increasingly Too-Tight Blue Jeans I Also Wore Outside On The Hottest Day Ever: Rare is the occasion that I regret my ardent anti-shorts stance. This is such an occasion. This is one of those rarest of times. It is like an oven in my nether regions. It is most unpleasant, and perhaps showing more leg and getting some air up in there would help. Maybe I should’ve worn shorts. (I refuse to even consider my anti-sandals rule, but it’s coming close that.)

Dear Sweat Glands: What the hell? Are you seriously the best cooling system God or Evolution or some superstar team up of the two could come up with? How horrible! Salty water making a mess of my skin and clothes, often resulting in an onion odor is a sound way to prevent overheating? Seriously? Pretty dumb, Nature. Pretty dumb.

Dear Sun: It is Fall, you idiot. Cut it out. You dumb bastard.

***

Bah! That’s it. Next time the temperature rises above eighty, I’m not going outside, no matter what is happening. No matter how long I’ve been a shut in.

Way to go, heat.

That Darn Sun

In this city I live in, this City of Angels, most can agree the one thing we DEFINITELY have going for us is the weather. Sunshine, folks. Almost all the time. I started taking it for granted until I visited Ohio and West Virginia in the dead of winter. Freezing with piles of snow and icicles the size of midgets, ready to fall off a building and impale you any minute? No thanks.

In those states to the middle and the east, the weather people on the TV actually have useful jobs. Whereas here it’s usually a ridiculously tight shirt wearing lady with super fake breasts talking to some old man in a suit behind a desk about how it’ll be mild and sunny everyday, in places where the weather changes, one has to really pay attention to what their less surgically endowed weather sayers have to say.

So, yeah, it’s ridiculous to complain about this, but that ball of fire in the sky, that orb that keeps things bright and warm here in LA, is getting a bit pushy. Today, wandering the sidewalks in my black General Zod tee shirt (yeah, I’m stylish), my body started reacting to the heat emenating from the sky. I don’t know what the temperature is in numbers, but my body is telling me it’s a little hot. Already. It’s March.

Maybe it’s just an especially warm weekend. I hope. While Summer is swell and all, I’m not a huge fan of shorts or the other fashions necessitated by the increase in heat. Flip flops? No thanks. Tank tops? I prefer to hide my lack of guns. But my preferred long pants and shoes style choices are clearly about to become problematic again.

Because I hate sweating.

Now, I didn’t break a sweat out there today… but I could feel it coming on. If I’d stayed out longer? My body’s faulty cooling system (because, really, there’s got to be a better biological way for humans to stay cool other than sweating salty, odor producing water from our pours) would’ve surely kicked in.

So, Sun, why not relax? We’re good here, in LA. Bright, clear days and mild temperatures are just fine. Why not go help those folks in the Midwest and East Coast and leave things here as they’ve been for the past few months, eh? K, thanks.