It's Sunday. Our area is under a "severe heat advisory" which is the adult way to say "it's real fuckin' hot." We don't want to go to the pool because every fatty in town will be there and it's so hot, it's not enough to simply be next to the water, so we'd have to jump in the pond with all the other cattle. We don't want to go to the movies because it's not a good time to take a second mortgage out on the house.
So right now, the husband is at the gym, the toddler is "playing dishes" in the kitchen sink and I'm debating whether I should finish crocheting a hat I started yesterday or finish some sewing projects I started last week. I'm really not sure where the older kid is, and I'm not sure I want to know.
Really, I just want it to be...not as hot.
Sacrilege, coming from me, a confirmed summer-holic. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE summer. I yearn for summer. I cry every Labor Day because it's kind of the official "end" of summer. But holy shit, 115 degrees is for pork, not people. (I like my pork medium rare, thank you.) It's not even this hot in Florida. Heat and humidity is charming when you live within walking distance of a beach--not when you're landlocked.
I have to admit, though, it doesn't bother me much. I like spending Sunday lazing around doing very little (since it's not physically possible for me to "do nothing"). Reveling in the fact I have a comfortable sofa and central air conditioning. And if my kids insist on spending the day whining about how boooorrrred they are, I can smile, knowing they are finally spending their summer the same damn way I did.