The last few days have been unbearably hot. Unfortunately, I inherited my father's extreme sensitivity to heat. He in turn inherited it from his mother. My grandma was the only 92-year-old woman in the nursing home who was constantly complaining she was overheated. All the other nonagenarians would shuffle past wearing multiple layers of woolens, but she would ask to have the fan tilted her way a bit more and to please quit buying her long sleeves.
The temperatures allegedly have been in the upper eighties, but with the humidity it feels more like PLEASE JUST KILL ME NOW.
Don't get me wrong, I am ecstatic that summer is here. I love that the sunshine has made my tomatoes double in size in the last three days. I love the popsicles, the kiddie pool, the sandy bathing suits. But I just don't love the thermometer to get above seventy-five. I sweat. I get palpitations and the vapors. And I don't have a fainting couch in my backyard.
The one upside of sweltering temperatures is that it makes the still quite frigid waters of Lake Michigan entirely bearable, welcome even. Monday we spent the afternoon with our friends the Bridens at the beach. We grilled hot dogs, ate potato chips, dug sand holes, sprayed sunscreen, and swam. It felt like a real vacation and, as we do every single time we go to the beach, we vowed to come every day until the first frost drives us away kicking and screaming.