A Note to My July Self
It was twenty seven degrees here in Charlotte one morning last week when I walked my dogs. Per my usual, I bundled up with all the layers I could find (which now, in my old/cold age includes thermal underwear and some Hot Hands handwarmers stuffed into both pockets) and braced myself for the elements. I pulled my hat down as low as I could, my scarf as high as possible, and pulled on the new gloves I bought that are allegedly for people who like to do winter outdoorsy things in icy cold weather. None of it helped. I froze…and by that, I mean, almost literally. My face was so numb upon my return home that I could barely talk, and if you have known me for any stretch of time at all, you know that I am not a woman who typically has any difficulty talking. I was not made for these conditions.
My standard winter walk gear anytime the temperature dips below fifty degrees. The hand warmers are a new, and dare I say ingenious, move.
I admit that I am a spoiled Southerner who is not used to the cold. That is why I have only and will only ever live in the warm, balmy South. Frankly, I find fifty degrees to be frigid, unrelentingly cold now (once upon a time, I was not this cold-natured, but my digestive issues have frankly caused me to lose a lot of my—ahem—insulation) and I spend the majority of my days shivering, chattering, and trying to find ways to get warm. Beyond never moving anywhere that experiences brutal cold, I will also never own a car without seat warmers ever again. I may never turn mine off now that I have discovered how truly wonderful they feel. They not only knock the chill off, they also work wonders for aches and pains. They have become my mobile security blanket. How soothing! Seat warmers or miracle workers, you tell me. Either way, mine are on high and here to stay.
Jack Frost doesn’t stand a chance against Stage 3 seat heat.
The threat has now passed, but the local weather forecasts had said at one point that we could possibly get snow later this week. I found myself actually dreading it—the sure sign your youth has passed and you are officially adulting (and a sign that you may have slipped and fallen on some ice and realized that snow is not all it is cracked up to be). Instead of being excited about snow days, sledding, or building a snow man, I thought about how cold it would be, dealing with icy puppy paws, and the mess it always makes. Hard pass for me, thanks. Saturday Night Live had it right when they poked fun at Southerners dealing with the white stuff and called snow “the devil’s dandruff.”
January is already over, and summer will be here before we know it. I want this to serve as a note for myself, to be read in the hottest month of the year, to cool my little overheated self down when I feel like I am sweltering and would give anything for the cold. I want to remind my July self to just enjoy her sweaty upper lip and the colony of gnats no doubt perched on her eyelashes, because she is—at long last—finally warm! She has thawed, miracle of miracles! I am sure that by July it will hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk (if anyone can afford eggs by that point in time), and Mother Nature will take care of warming my car seats for me, no fancy technology required.
When the coat, gloves, scarf, and hat have been put away and I am sweating through my t-shirt, I want to remember the mornings that walking in the shade felt like punishment and I searched out patches of sunshine to walk in, just for the warmth. Maybe most importantly, I want to remind myself that, even when the humidity has reached 199%, I swore with my frostbitten fingers raised to the gray January sky that I would not complain about the summer heat when it finally came. I will do my best to embrace it. Or jump in the pool and complain underwater where no one can hear.
Stay warm, wherever you are, and stay patient. My neighbor posted a picture of her jonquils that have just opened up and are in bloom, so spring is coming. In the meantime, I’ll be over here bundled and shivering and waiting for a heatwave to come and thaw my frozen carcass out. And when it does come, so help me, if you hear me whining about it being hot, feel free to bean me with my leftover Hot Hands until I stop.