It's HOT. I keep saying this to my husband and to friends on the phone and to cashiers at the grocery store. I'm tired of hearing myself say it, but I can't seem to stop. This is my first summer with a babe (Sam, 6 months and 1 week) and it turns out that carrying an extra (almost) 16 pounds on my hip just makes me hotter. Sadly, only in a temperature-related way, not in a Paris Hilton sort of way.
Currently, it's about 95 degrees here and I'm hanging out in a 70 degree house eating the occasional popsicle and standing over the occasional air vent. I should be used to this heat. I was born and raised in Georgia (read: HOTlanta) for crying out loud. But, alas, I'm a big wimp when it comes to anything above 85 degrees. I should probably be required to turn in my Southern Belle card.
On a semi-related note, while driving home this afternoon from meeting a friend for lunch at my favorite place in Knoxville, (The French Market on Gay St.) I pulled up behind what seemed at first to be a nice little white convertible. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a Ford Focus whose owner had somewhat awkwardly cut the top off of his car. At first I was appalled at the lack of foresight (What will he do when it rains? What about when it turns cold again, if that ever happens?) but that was mixed with something like admiration. Perhaps this driver of the altered Ford Focus was on to something. Perhaps my Jeep Grand Cherokee could also go through a similar transformation and allow Sam and I to feel the wind in our hair as we drove down the hot interstate. I took another look at the Ford Focus "convertible" and decided that, in fact, I should not make that man my role model. Still, when you're living in 95 degrees (100 degree heat index) you find that things like cutting the top off of your sedan sound like a good idea. Evidence, perhaps, that extreme heat kills brain cells
The babe is stirring. Time for one of those aforementioned diaper changes.