I don't think so.
NO, I'm not going to the pool. Look at me, my skin is bubble wrap as it is! What do I look like, a masochist? I've got freckles the size of half-dollars going on here. My back looks like a map of the world, little light brown continents edging back toward Pangaea.
When I leave the house I have to run through the maze of ladders and tin sheets and crumpled dusty gray drainspouts abandoned in twisted heaps toward the car so I can drive to somewhere else that's hopefully also air-conditioned.
The lawn looks like a big dying quilt, persistent fading green checkered with large light-brown rectangles where the grass perished and dissipated into an atomic shadow under the weight of the tin blue sheets rudely scattered like playing cards.
The ants come out when it's scorching hot like this. Industrious and diligent, ants are, unperturbed by the punishing sun. Ants and roofers work undeterred.
I step on the ants every chance I get. I want to send the squished ones back to their brothers with a note tied around their little spindly legs: There's more where this came from.
The roof looks very nice.
When I'm not running errands in the cruel and unusual heat I'm working on the pieces I'll be selling at an upcoming street fair. I work inside the house where it's cool and relaxing and I can listen to my music and sing along when the mood strikes. I just bought the Walk the Line soundtrack. I'm liking it.
My grandmother always said the key to patience is, while you're waiting, do something else. I'm waiting for the heat to subside, so that's my something else. Work.
On my Launchcast as I wrote (because I spent a lot of time just listening and not writing):
- Moonlight Mile, the Rolling Stones
- I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, U2
- Blue Moon, Bob Dylan
- Come Fly With Me, Frank Sinatra
- All My Love, Led Zeppelin
- Don't, Elvis Presley
- Sultans of Swing, Dire Straits