and endless summer doesn't seem romantic anymore
That line has lived in my head since I thought it up and noticed it's in iambic heptameter. Not because I know how to put it in a poem (I haven't written poetry since I was a teenager, and it was as bad as you might expect), but because songs and stories that romanticize summer are getting pretty hard to relate to.
I started typing this post at the library where I work, dripping with sweat because our AC failed again. We've had this problem off and on for years. The AC is fixed for now, thank goodness, but even when it's working, it doesn't work well. Our open-plan building, though it's pretty to look at, doesn't move air around efficiently, and I find myself asking if the architect ever experienced a Deep South summer in his life.
I seem to overheat far more easily than my coworkers do. My heat intolerance began in summer of 2016, during a manatee care internship in South Florida. (Rest in peace, Snooty. You were adorably big and boopful and possibly the only thing that could've made 100 degree humid heat worth enduring.) The planet has only gotten hotter since then. If only the board of trustees would acknowledge that and revise our 25-year-old dress code to allow knee-length shorts. I'm certain our patrons don't notice or care whether our knees are visible.
I wish I could be nocturnal in summertime. It's easier to be a person when the sun isn't fighting my body and brain. Or better yet, let me estivate until October. The heat makes me drowsy anyway.
P.S.,
The bookstore I mentioned in my previous post finally has a new home! They haven't officially reopened yet, but they're having a welcome back party later today.