It's like a million degrees in Boston right now, which is starting to put a crimp in my plans. I tried to go down to the dance studio today. The studio is un-airconditioned, and the heat index was 105°F. I realized that was a terrible idea about five minutes after I got on the train, so I returned a bunch of library books and bought some ginger ale at CVS and came home. Apparently I am the person those Excessive Heat Index warnings are for. Goddamn it.

I didn't bother changing out of my dance gear when I got back. Hot pants are not technically underwear. I don't need to put on any additional pants to leave my room, even if other people are home.

This was a lot easier before I realized that I wasn't supposed to be this uncomfortable when it's hot out. I always knew I did not like being out in the heat, and in fact I put my foot down when I was about twelve and flat refused to go on any family outings that involved being outside, but I didn't really think it was a sign something was wrong. I just fucking hated the weather. Now I'm pissed at the adults for not listening to my whinging enough to recognize I was complaining of, y'know, the beginnings of heat exhaustion.

And, retrospectively, irrationally, pissed at myself for putting up with it so much, especially at school. I could have just plunked down on the field and refused to do whatever stupid thing they were demanding I do before I fell over. What were they going to do, call my mother? Assuming they even had the correct phone number at that point -- there was a span of time when my mother called the phone company and demanded they change it about every six months, for reasons that I was never all that clear on, and then intentionally dragged her feet on changing it on any paperwork -- they knew as well as I did that my mother automatically hated The Man. All they would have accomplished was getting her to come down to the school, very angrily, and remove me from the premises.

Oh well. At least I have ginger ale now.

Comments