Things it is too hot for: sleeping, being comfortable, cooking, wearing pants, blow drying my hair (I’m pretending to be restricted by the heat, but I totally would never do it anyway), walking the dog, wearing makeup. As an adult, summer has most definitely slipped to second favorite season – as much as I love summer time barbecues at my grandparents’ house and my annual burn-tan, I cannot wait to wear all my new cozy H&M sweaters, drink pumpkin spice lattes and tool around pumpkin patches. I’m already impatient to wear my Halloween costume.
This is entirely because Sally Albright from When Harry Met Sally is my spirit animal and too many things about summer annoy me.
Like the heat, mostly. I can’t stand being oppressively hot. No matter how much I hydrate, I get migraines. No matter how much sunscreen I wear, I fry. No matter how many dresses I wear to prevent chaffing, I break out in rashes. I’m just too delicate for weather extremes. So tragic. When I was a kid, every August my dad dragged us to every national park between Los Angeles and New Mexico and I fought him tooth and nail because traipsing around the desert in the hottest weeks of summer was absolutely torturous for me. (Little did I know at the time that I’d eventually go to graduate school in Anthropology and want to live in all those places.) Thus, the weather here is making me insane.
It’s also doing wonders for my skin, as this is the first really humid LA summer I can remember. I currently have several drying patches of crushed-aspirin-and-water paste dotting my face, because I read somewhere (read: Glamour magazine) that aspirin can take the redness out of a pimple. I’ve been doing this for days and I can attest that that is totally bullshit. However, it’s not making things worse per se and it’s still nice to pretend that I’m doing something to combat the break outs, other than, you know, drinking vinegar like a total nutcase (which I didn’t actually even do today because it struck me yesterday that sloshing a bunch of acid in my mouth might break apart my teeth and now I refuse to continue drinking my tablespoon of ACV per pint of water until I buy some plastic straws and can sip it with as little contact with my teeth as possible. I am insane).
Also also, no period today. I did, however, get a massive statement in the mail from the lab that ran my genetic tests. Apparently, when my insurance company said that the tests were covered in full, they actually meant covered in third, because I now owe around 27% of the astronomically high testing fee. My first thought upon opening this bill? It wasn’t, “Holy crap, that’s a lot of money and wasn’t this supposed to be cheaper with insurance?” It was, “Holy crap, if it turns out I’m infertile, this is going to be a huge waste of money.”
See, sometimes being a raging hypochondriac works in my favor. I’m so worked up about being unable to conceive that I’m not really bothered by how much money I’ll have paid in order to have someone tell me I’m completely normal and healthy.
(Reread that last sentence and tell me I’m not crazy.)