Oh, the weather outside is frightful. Dreadful. Completely horrific.
It’s August in Ohio. Which sounds like a song title from a third-rate musical.
It’s certainly third-rate weather.
By which I mean I need to grow gills in order to breath. We’ve taken humidity to entirely new level. Two more drops of water and we will need to paddle to get around. It’s less humid in rain forests. It’s less soggy three miles below sea level—in the sea. I am in desperate search of an oxygen molecule not cozying up to two hydrogen molecules.
Should this surprise me? Of course not. Happens every year right about this time.
Does it surprise me? Of course it does. I expect lovely weather every day, especially weekends. I’m usually disappointed, but I keep hoping.
Fact: wearing a snorkel on highly humid days does not help.
Neither does hoping that the oxygen will give up the ménage et trois scenarios. When I want beach front property, we’ll move to the beach. Right now, I just want to breathe.