Let me say it plainly: I HATE THE HEAT.
I don’t say that in a prissy, fan myself as I stand on a veranda type of way. I hate it in the please-get-this-summer-off-my-skin kind of way. And when I say it out loud, people look at me like I’ve insulted the sunshine itself, or said I hated puppies. It’s as if liking heat is a virtue and loathing it, a character flaw.
Saying you love the heat is not a badge of honor. Seeing your back-soaked T-shirt, now resembling a Slip ‘N Slide is not exactly my idea of sexy. Nor is the ever-charming butt-crack moisture line crawling up the back of your shorts. It’s trying to escape the heat too!
Heat and I have been enemies for as long as I can remember. Maybe I had a heatstroke as a child. Apparently, that’ll do it. Once you’ve had one, you’re less tolerable and you no longer welcome it back with open arms. I don’t just get uncomfortable. I literally get ill. Lightheaded, weak, and then come the dreaded abdominal cramps, demanding a bathroom within sprinting distance.
I love playing pickleball. But I’m what you might call a “fair weather pickleball player”. Playing outdoors means sunglasses sliding down my nose, sun glare giving me an excuse for my poor playing and wearing a cap or visor, that while it may help with the sun in my eyes, feels like it’s a waffle iron on my forehead. My playing days are now dwindling down.
Playing indoors? Yes, please. No sunglasses, no glare, no fear of cramping episodes. But sadly, my fellow players are frolicking outside. For me, it’s not about pickiness, it’s more about survival.
It dawned on me there’s an unmistakable correlation between my hatred of damp, perspiration-filled clothes today and a wet bathing suit. Same sensory betrayal.
As a kid, I spent most of my summer vacation at the public pool. Hanging out with my friends and being in the water was magical. Until, I had to get out of the water. It didn’t take long until I became aware of the wet one-piece suit clutching me like it had abandonment issues. Get it off me! That same feeling still haunts me today.
I dreaded having to go to the bathroom while at the pool. Rolling down a soaked one-piece while tiptoeing across mystery puddles, gave me the creeps. I didn’t wear flipflops. No one did. We just tiptoed across that smooth germ-ridden cement, praying we wouldn’t slip.
And then the unthinkable… peeling off that suit to pee. Between the public nudity panic and the rolling down of that wet suit, there were many times I just held it until I got home. I’ll admit, on a rare occurrence, I couldn’t wait. And folks, that’s how you get pee in the pool: it’s the traumatized girls with a wet bathing suit phobia to blame.
On the ride home from the pool, I’d sit on a towel in the back seat, silently counting the seconds until freedom, when I could finally escape the polyester prison clinging to every inch of me. I never brought dry clothes. Because no child voluntarily bares it all in a public locker room. That wasn’t a thing. Still isn’t.
Memory flashback sitting in the car on that towel: Mom mentioning she had sweetcorn for supper. That was almost exciting enough to make me forget about the discomfort I was in. Three, maybe four ears of corn was all the menu needed. Dry clothes and sweetcorn…a perfect combination. Now, that’s a good summer memory. Back when sweetcorn wasn’t ready until August.
And so, it’s all connected. The same full body cringe hits me today when my sweaty clothes cling post pickleball. A damp sports bra spells out claustrophobia. It’s not just discomfort, it’s flashback-level torment. The heat makes every outfit feel like a wet swimsuit in disguise: sticky and clingy. It’s all connected. Heat + moisture + clothing = emotional turbulence.
So yeh, I’m not proud to say it, but I really dislike the summer heat. I’m not one of those who fantasize about summer when it’s snowing. I dream about Spring. When the world wakes up after a long slumber, and the world has color again. Windows are open and birds and other animals are doing their thing.
That’s heaven to me. Fall’s close behind, with its sweatshirt weather and cool-down evenings. But summer with its heat and humidity, no, thank you. You’ll find me inside where there’s A/C, laptop on my lap, pouring my life experiences onto the screen like a heat-weary blogger with a vendetta against July.
Grab a cool glass of something, preferably with lots of ice and let’s raise a toast: “To the ones who make no apologies for their butt-crack soaked shorts; to the souls who’ve tiptoed through questionable puddles in locker rooms; to the picklers waiting for cloud cover and a strong breeze (but not too strong); and to everyone who’s ever felt personally betrayed by their clothing and has the strength to say: “I hate the heat,” without apology. Cheers!
