I raced a boat this morning. I raced a boat and I won. I may have had an advantage knowing that it was a race and all. I had a wide-open, early empty trail along the water. She had the canal all to herself except the occasional skull. A little boy was skipping. He would have loved to know we were racing I’m sure. His dad was on deck. By the time the pavement dissolved to dirt I had edged out a lead. At the grass I had them smoked.
They were layered against the morning’s bite. Naturally. I was sweating as I worked for the lead. It’s cold in the Seattle. Not just in the morning. But most of the time. I have a friend who grimaces against a grey sky at the mere thought of how frustrated I must be with the weather.
And I am. I should be. It’s July and we’ve had exactly 18 hours warmer than 75 degrees this summer. I’m pretty sure that is some how sac-religious against the universe. Add it to the list of things I don’t want to learn when half of my summer is behind me.
Summers are supposed to be hot. Skin peeling from your back hot. Cheeks constantly flushed hot. Beads on my forehead. Shoulders bursting with freckles from behind the svelte straps of a skimpy sundress. That kind of hot. I want to walk around barefoot because flip-flops are too hot. I want to wear nothing at night, be bare between the sheets with wet cheeks against the pillow. I want the orgasimically great refreshment of toes in cold water. I want the ice cream to melt before it hits my lips, the water weight I carry to slip effortlessly from my skin.
I fundamentally believe that between the months of June and August I should be able to wear mostly nothing almost all of the time. After ten months of rain I damn well deserve to bring an extra layer for the air conditioning – you know, that thing that pumps out freezing cold greatness for sweltering hot days? Surely you must miss that magic? Oh, right. We don’t have that here. Don’t need it. We wear down jackets in July. That’s pathetic.
Seattle makes you work for your sweat. Go figure.