July is upon us, and the one inescapable thing that invariably comes with it is the weather.
Gone are the moderately sunny days of June, where t-shirts and shorts worn with comfort and smiles were upon you. Right about now, I could use a snow bank! People often think that Summer does not exist on the 49th parallel. It generally comes as a shock to those that aren’t too familiar with Canada that we have some of the most atrociously hot weather on planet earth.
I could happily jam a Popsicle up my butt for quick relief. Unfortunately, it’d melt in less than a millisecond.
It’s wonderful to wake up in the morning and actually see the air. So heavily laden with humidity it literally hangs above the street waiting to envelop its occupants in its misty arms.
Being a man of some size, it’s amazing just how quickly my freshly powdered body is suddenly slick with sweat and sludge. And yes, talc does slide off you like so much flotsam. Within minutes you look like you’ve just ran a 25k marathon. Your hair, once so clean and fluffy is now pasted to every single inch of your head and body. Your clothes now sport a treasure trail from the back of your neck to the waistband of your walking shorts. Your sandals are pooling with moisture, your eyes sting from the sweat dripping into them. In short, George, the Abominable Snowman vacationing Hawaii would well understand your pain.
It’s interesting just when the worst of Summer will arrive in a city near you. It generally visits on the day you’re needing to look your best. You’ll spend extra time making yourself look great for that first impression, only to end up arriving at your destination looking as if you’ve been swept up upon a sandbar of some deserted isle. Clothing once so carefully pressed clings to every pore, every crevice. You couldn’t look more bedraggled if you tried. And on the way home, you know the sky will open upon you as if it was preparing the planet for Noah’s Ark, the sequel.
You may think this is a good thing, but what it truly will become is honestly not anything remotely associated with good. In fact, mist has now graduated to “sauna”. As the sun breaks through the clouds after walking through natures car wash, all that lovely water evaporates to serve a new role as God’s steam tray. You suddenly understand how garlic spare ribs and chicken balls must feel at your local Chinese buffet.
You’d kill for a few moments rest on a bed of dry ice.
Aah, but it’s not finished with you yet, because you soon realize as you walk through your front door that your home has become a catch-all for every drop of vapor out there. The overly damp hot air is so abundant that it is fully capable of taking down the strongest air conditioner. You know your hydro bills will result with you refinancing your home. Yet you turn it on and sit within inches it’s blast radius until your skin resembles that of a plucked chicken. You feel your sinuses, your throat, your eyes, in fact, every single orifice dehydrating as you start drifting into your cryogenic coma, feeling this momentarily blessed relief from the par boiled landscape lurking just outside your window.
It’s usually during such a time of utter joy that the power grid will overload. It’s a given. And it’s almost always just after the sun sets. So here you are, praying the cool will stay that way, whilst searching in the dark for heat generating candles to light. It becomes crystal clear within minutes that the cool air and dryness cannot stay within your home, and that in fact the Brazilian rainforest is coming to a living room near you, like it or not.
For some further relief, you dive into a cool shower. And for a few moments, you feel wonderfully refreshed, only to find that the after effects of that shower, cold as it was, has only added to your torture filled home. You are in hell, and it’s clear that the thermostat is set to “suffer”.
Folks, I can make you this personal guarantee. One you can take to the bank. Within six months, mark my words, I will be sitting here, musing and griping about how much I wish it was July. After all, I am Canadian, and it’s my birthright to squawk about the weather. In fact, it’s our national pastime. Kinda right up there with the hockey.