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We’re used to heat and humidity in the South—it’s as common as sweet tea or sweat—but this summer? This summer is acting unhinged. The temperatures are allegedly just 11 degrees above normal, according to our overly optimistic weather guy. But let me assure you: it FEELS like we’ve been dropped into Satan’s crockpot and someone forgot to hit “low.”
Humidity is the South’s version of a summer tax. Most of the year we coast along with pleasant weather but come July, it’s like living inside someone’s mouth. Everything’s damp. Sheets are suspiciously moist, and my paperbacks have taken on the texture of wet noodles. This is the time of year when I should be able to hang my laundry out, but it’s all going into the dryer because when hung outdoors it stays damp —sometimes, all day.
Dinner these days? Protein shakes. Not for health—oh no—we’re just trying to cool our internal organs. We then strategically position ourselves under ceiling fans, hoping to generate enough wind power to resemble comfort. Yes, the AC is running, bless its hardworking little heart, but once the humidity goes above 80% for multiple days, it stops being climate control and becomes more like “polite suggestion.”
Yesterday, I intentionally wandered into Hobby Lobby—not to buy anything, just to loiter in the faux pumpkins and cinnamon-scented nonsense. I needed a reminder that someday soon, this ridge will crawl out of the bowels of summer and into the cozy, leaf-crackling, scarf-fluffing joy of autumn.