I don’t know how the rest of you withstood the past eight weeks. It was May and it was 38 degrees. Then it was June and it was 38 degrees and also pouring. I attended a nephew’s after-season baseball tournament in sweatpants, watching the soccer moms hunch into their lined leggings and five dollar lattes. Spam emails offered me opportunities to “escape the heat” when I required a parka to enter the basement. It wouldn’t end. It wouldn’t end. It wouldn’t end. I begged the Lord. It wouldn’t end.
When it did end, last week, overnight, I didn’t trust it; I was a beaten animal who had been offered an entire dead cow on a very large platter and I refused to approach it, for this was clearly some sort of awful prank.