I’m seriously worried. Summer is less than two weeks away on the calendar, and the last month has been more like November in terms of temperatures and rain fall. I’m not complaining. Really, I’m not. If it gets any warmer, I’m toast. Or toasted. To a crisp.
All I have to do is think about it warming up and the flashes start and the sweat drips. What I wouldn’t do to keep the cool breezes and drizzle going all summer long. Of course, every non-menopausal person in the vicinity could never cope. Suicide rates would rise, drug abuse and public intoxication would be rampant, there would be no respite from the mildew that grows on the webs between our Washingtonian toes.
However, the menopausal persons would be forever grateful. You ever wonder why all those women in the Pacific Northwest go outside in this weather without an umbrella?
So if the sun ever does shine again, or the thermometer does rise, and summer actually shows its face, I’m outta here. I’ll be sitting inside in front of a fan, trying to rearrange my wrinkles.