The Heat

Now that the rainy season is coming to a close, what we got is heat.  I’m not talking, let’s detox with a nice sauna gym sweat.  I am talking pure succotash heat.  By noon, Erica and I are roasting to such a degree before our laptops that I have turned around several times to gaze at the refrigerator.  Not because I am hungry.  Eating is out of the question in this squelch.  I look at it because I am trying to figure out how to put myself in.  If I can just get my head inside the fridge for ten minutes, will this fever succumb?  Maybe if I lie on our adobe floor and stick in my feet?  Then I could close the door, sort of? 

Let me explain.  I am a gal who likes heat.  I love heat.  I lived in Nicaragua loving heat.  But when it gets into your pores and you find yourself angry at the fan for rotating toward your fellow writer and not you, even though the fan will return before the minute’s up, you know you got serious heat.  Lately Erica and I have taken to going for dips in the pool we share with our neighbors, which is more like a large blue bathtub.  With the sun shining down all day, pools don’t stay cool.  You get in and get out and realize with shock, that while you are wet, you are still hot.  Some days, you’re hotter.

I have tried the wet handkerchief on my head.  In fact, I am wearing one right now.  I’ve had it on less than ten minutes and it is already drying.  I kid you not.  And the fan just went back to Erica, who is napping in her writing space because with this much heat, what to do?  Her skin is steamed, shiny and wet.  Her computer awaits but the heat does not abet.  I would keep writing, come to some erudite point, but truly my friends, I have to go in to re-wet the kerchief.  Body temp control is calling.  From very close to the equator, sending you love.