It is hot.
Weather advisories tell us there is a heatwave afoot.
Our plants are wilting (plant-killer that I am, I blame our friendly star, the sun) and tempers are rising.
If we had access to air conditioning, our troubles would lessen.
Not for the plants. With me as a caretaker, they’re screwed whether they have access to cool breezes or not.
But for us humans. If only. If only.
Luckily, our apartment, being on the garden level, stays relatively cool, compared to those who foolishly inhabit penthouse suites.
And yet, limbs and bodily crevices still sweat, leaving a sheen matched only by the tiles in the shower.
The journey from home to car seems to transport us into the mindset of the ancients.
We trudge in sandals, swatting imaginary flies, carrying our chattel up the pathway and across the street to the Honda Civic chariot, which, in a cruel twist of fate, has a busted air conditioning system which its owners have not yet fixed, in the hopes of affording a bigger, newer vehicle.
We settle our chattel into their respective harnesses in the back seat, cringing while fastening the hot, black safety systems in place.
“Owwwwww!” the 2 year old screams, bangs plastered to her forehead.
“I can’t get the seatbelt in,” the 6 year old growls.
The heat in the Honda chariot, in our home, on the streets…has seeped into our consciousness like a serpent.
Should we find the nearest escape, and spend all day at the air conditioned Children’s Museum? Aquarium? TJ Maxx?
Or should we embrace the fact that in this relentless heat, we might as well be living in some long-forgotten civilization, 20 or 30 BC, before cellphones, televisions and air conditioning blighted our existence with distraction and relief.
The former would be a practical solution.
The latter, infinitely more fun.
I could don a white toga, gold sandals (Jimmy Choos, please) and braid my hair on top of my head like a Grecian goddess.
I could revel in the heat as hubby feeds me grapes and we feast on wild boar.
I could pretend I am an ancient queen, suffering in the desert as my troops build a gigantic monument in honor of mummies who mummy in the heat. A bad-tempered Sphinx in Spanx.
And then I could invoke a dramatic climax to the summer, clasping an asp to my chest in protest.
Wait. What am I thinking? An asp?
What is this? My life? Shakespeare? Myth? Or reality?
Time to drink a tall, cool glass of lemonade, reapply deodorant, and get dinner on the table.