That one friend who does not grasp the concept of "It's too hot outside."
They'll never understand the weather.
I was once a bog body dredging across the roof of a parking garage along with my roommate under the blistering Los Angeles summer, my mind plagued with circular thoughts about the disgusting heat around me. Everything decayed under the relentless bursts of uninterrupted sunshine, and he looked at me and remarked, “It’s such a nice day out—I love the dry heat!” I glared at his burnt and brittle skin with lidless eyes. My brother in Christ, dry heat is still immiserating; I do not want to feel like I am crisping under a heat lamp. You know what else has dry heat? Ovens. His blonde hair, blue eyes, and fair freckled skin have rotted into a shriveled head, a grasping face. We are functionally crossing a tarmac and the air is sizzling and I am leering into the sun’s rage. We are human bacon and we’re closer to the pan. I have never understood him less and I am forever concerned for his well-being.
Regardless of the denseness of humidity in the air, we all have a friend who is pathologically unable to grasp the mechanisms of weather. They cannot comprehend the difference between a watch and a warning. Their weather app location must be set to Timbuktu because their forecast is always a complete deviation from the other five reputable sources of forecasts that apparently you have to cross-examine whenever they inquire about going for a jog through the park. They will hurtle along increasingly sweaty groans, as it has never occurred to them to check the temperature and conditions outside at any point of the day. It’s time to torch this bitch.
They are blissfully unaware of everyone around them drowning in the thick swamp-like moisture that lies stagnant in the air. And as your skin pores clog with rotting slime, you will have to play the villain and let them know that you have no interest in plodding and crowding into an outdoor patio for a $26 smash burger while the full-blast super-soaker misters crop dust your turmeric-tossed tots. When that hair-brained idea is no longer viable, an electric buzz permeates their brain to conjure a Plan B, and they will ask if you want to crush some rosé at the park. The image of languishing in God’s sauna almost makes me want to hang out in a mall. They will be surprised when you do not want to ram yourself into a sliding box, churning and roaring and clanking, sweating through your shorts as you pant on the platform waiting for your second transfer because you missed the previous subway by two minutes.
You will be suffocating in the blistering drudgework of getting through a 40-hour workweek as the city power grid is on the verge of shutting down; tehn your friend will text you to grab margaritas on a patio, even as the Dew Point exceeds 70. You sternly remind them that, We do not use The P-word when it feels like 96 degrees. The importance of “Feels Like” cannot be understated. The ocean of tedium washes over you, and the very concept of adulting dissolves like a bead of sweat falling on the sidewalk: Why are you explaining weather to a 32-year-old??
(On a side note, it should be mandated across Corporate America that WFH is automatically instated when the forecast is 85 degrees or higher. Also, outdoor weddings in July should be illegal.)
“Crush some rosé at the park.” 😆 Dude, you might have more “coffee-colored Cadillac” lines than anybody I read.
There was doc about Chuck Berry named “Hail! Hail Rock & Roll!” Bruce Springsteen remembered that in one of his songs, Chuck Berry sang something like ‘She drove a coffee-colored Cadillac.’ Springsteen said, “To this day I’ve never seen a ‘coffee-colored Cadillac.’ But I can still tell you *exactly* what one looks like.”