Wake up, stale air, consider opening windows, step outside, hot and humid and 80 degrees already, leave house closed, air running, try to entertain kids inside yet again, try to go somewhere, hot car, air running, hot parking lot, everyone thirsty and sweaty, back home, air running, make something for dinner that won't heat up the house, dance in the livingroom to tire out children, air running, lukewarm bath, kid bedtime, work, run outside at dusk to water and patrol for bugs, eaten by mosquitos, soaked in sweat, work, air running, Netflix, time for bed, read, air running, asleep. Repeat.
I've been trying to remember lately what my impression of summer in Charlottesville was before we had kids. I remember thinking it was 95 degrees for the second half of July and the first half of August, that other than that it was pretty bearable. But then again, I work up, went to work, came home in the evening, walked the dog and hung out all night. I didn't have the mirror of children to show me the kind of deprivation borne out of being inside all day, every day.
Last summer was horrid; it was 90 degrees and hotter all of May, June, July and August. This year has certainly been better. We had a couple heat waves lasting a few days, but the current HOT didn't set in until mid-July. We're in the third week of it now. If it wraps up in mid-August, I guess we'll be back to what I remember thinking was the norm.
That's my only beef with Charlottesville: a bit too hot for too long in the summer, and not quite enough snow in the winter. Yet, I need only think for a moment to remember to drudgery of the six-month winters in New England, which drug me down far lower than a month of hot summer.
It seems that's the way it is. You get long winters, long summers, no winter, no summer, constant grey, no rain - it's always something. No place is perfect.
Right?
