Oh, humidity. You wicked, wicked bitch.
On a recent day, I was feeling hi-tech, so I looked at the weather indicator on my iPhone. Our house is temperature controlled, and it seemed easier than going outside. It said the day's high would be 77.
Since I'm an idiot, and I lived in the desert for five years, I put on a pear of jeans and a breezy black blouse with cap sleeves, plus a jaunty little blue hat I bought on impulse at some cheapass shoe store in the mall (I look really good in hats, as long as I can get them on my giant head).
A pair of earrings, some flip flops, and I'm set to go.
You southerners already know my mistake. 77 with 10% humidity is jeans weather. 77 with 99% humidity means you'll be peeling those fuckers off when you get back to the comforts of central air.
So I changed into a sundress, and I thanked Jesus for giving me blonde leg hair.
Actual conversation between me and Roomie:
"Uhg, I just don't want to shave my legs."
"I don't care."
"Well lucky me, because I'm lazy."
"It just lowers the chances of some southern hottie stealing you away from me."
That's love, people.
*Update: The following day, when I woke up, I looked out the window and saw a sort of low-hanging fog that, if I lived in London or the Pacific Northwest, would mean a cool, gray day was ahead of me. Here, it's just the hot morning mist. I walked outside, and it felt like I'd walked into a dog's breath. The high tomorrow is 91. (p.s. It's still May, right?)
I begrudgingly shaved my legs, and in the process shaved a chunk out of my ankle about the size of my pinkie nail.
Blast you humidity! Blast you (said whilst shaking bloody Venus razor at sky)!
It's going to be a long summer.