We didn’t have a real spring this year. Last week the gallant band of my fellow playground guardian angels were flustered and embarrassed when offering excuses for wearing their winter jackets for work. But on Saturday you could nearly hear a sizzling as the temperature began a quick countdown before blasting off upwards to a heat wave August would be proud to own. Bodies Midwestern-bred over the course of generations for moderation in all things and characters prone to perseverence instead of quick reaction time reeled with the impact of a 30 degree rise in temperature. Collapse came quickly; six p.m. naps were enjoyed by young and old alike.
It’s Monday evening now, just past nap-time as my computer’s clock tells it. I’m going to hold out until a more normal bedtime tonight. The house is just too miserably hot to let me get any sleep until way past sunset anyway.
Happy Freakin’ Sweaty Summer, everyone. (You just couldn’t wait another month, could you?)