Autumn and Discontent
I never used to check the weather. It didn't seem to matter. The sky would do what it did and there wasn't much to to be said or done about it. Then I took up movies and skydiving, two things that are often dependent on the machinations of the atmosphere.
I checked today, as I've taken to doing, and saw that, come Monday, the high won't break seventy degrees.
Summer is finally over. The sweltering, sweaty, sticky, sizzling, scalding, steaming, oppressive, torrid, energy sapping, soul crushing, unrelentingly hot Georgia summer is finally coming to an end.
I despise heat. Summer revolts me. Say what you like about baseball, barbecues or bikini's, I'll take the long dark winter. I feel slow in summertime. When I exit an air conditioned building the heat and humidity slap me like a pillowcase full of fresh ash. They hang about me like venomous cloud. Clothes cling. Blacktop softens. The very air gets lazy and stupid even as it ripples and rises.
Soon, though, I can let my front door hang open. I can cross the street without acquiring a slick of perspiration. I can put the top down on my car without the shoulder belt drawing a diagonal of sweat across my chest. I can stand outdoors without getting feverish. I can be comfortable without machinery.
Long pants, long sleeves, jackets, heavy blankets, mulled cider and lower electricity bills. I can't wait.