So. . . this heat, huh?

We sizzled yesterday in DC. 90s already. It is the kind of heat that does things to you. It covers you with a sheen of wetness just walking to lunch, and it burns your little pigeon-y sternum during your brief stint outside. This heat makes your feet, wisely encased in shoes with "give," pink and sore because you're tromping all over the area between mechanics begging for mercy. Nobody's ready for this heat yet. Our skins are not tough enough, our feet not sturdy enough, our hair not short enough. Yet it's the kind of heat that makes people brothers and sisters, grimacing apologies at each other on the metro as we all reach up to hold the bar during rush hour. There are no accusations, no upturned noses on a day with this kind of premature, searing temperature. Just the resigned nod to each other: "no worries, man. there's no deoderant in the world that can make us smell like potpourri today." Kids and adults; all colors, all creeds; persipiring freely even in the arctic cooler of the metro. Days like today you can blot your shiny face and your entire attempt at makeup will fall into your towel, as though you've removed a mask. It's a day when natural fibers are all that will keep you sane, when you can suddenly discover that your carefully chosen white skirt and white t may be all cotton, but the skirt's liner is something else, because it clings to your wet legs like plastic, like a remora, like a tongue in this encasing, mouth-like atmosphere. Ladies glisten, they do not sweat, but you are drenched from head to foot as you trudge up the hill to your mechanic's garage. You pass children in a little kiddie pool, and you wonder briefly if they would be alarmed if you asked them to hose you off. Not in a weird perverted way, kids! Just a really overheated way! Sorry! No need to call your mom! You realize how flushed and damp you must really look--hair piled on top of your head, your nice healthy glow transformed into a heat strokey alarm bell. You drink a gatorade like you're in a commercial, shotgunning it like a beer, as you fill up the tank, gazing resentfully at the pump as you accept that you are being royally smurfed by the oil companies, but you will gratefully bend over if it means that you will have A/C blasting all the drive home. To hell with the Arctic Refuge, you think briefly. To hell with the elk. You feel bad later, encased in your chilly interior sitting at a standstill on the interstate, watching your fumes knock birds from the sky. It's nothing a chilled pinot grigio can't cure. But it's only May.