Summer is here, bitches. Sweet, sizzling mother of shit on a skillet, it is here. And it makes me want to punch every idiot who has been telling me, “Oh, you’re in for a hot summer! Hardyharharsnortfart.” I live in Maryland. Every summer is hot as crap. Although not as hot as summers down south. I spent a year in South Carolina when I graduated high school, and the summer that I was there, I was working two jobs. One as a waitress at a restaurant, where the uniforms were black pants and a heavy, huge black polo shirt. My other job was at an outdoor shopping center, working in a kiosk making hemp jewelry for spoiled idiots on vacation who were really into OAR and Dave Matthews. I would start my day at the hemp stand, sweating my balls off. I stored my restaurant uniform in the mini fridge there, because I would only have time to change in my car between jobs. It didn’t really help. Shit is gross in the south.
That sweat-ass summer cannot hold a candle to this one. Not only have we had heat indexes of like 107 gotdamn degrees; I get punched in the gut out of nowhere by enormous inner heat waves for no reason, with no warning. (**That is the first time I have ever attempted the use of a semi colon. If I did it wrong, I don’t care because I don’t know how to do that junk anyways.**) There are days that Adam comes home from work and I am sitting on the couch with an ice pack on my head, ready to meet my maker. And there is absolutely nothing that cools me off until that trip to hell has run its course.
We were at a friend’s birthday cookout over the weekend, and out of nowhere I got hit with the roasties. I told Adam I needed ice, so he gets me a baggie of ice and I pretty much don’t even feel it. I started getting sweaty and gross, so we tried going inside. Another thing I have learned while being pregnant: when people tell you that you are “glowing,” it is usually a nice way of them being dicks and saying you’re sweaty. So, being inside isn’t working, I am just getting hotter and sweatier, and then I start crying because I am gross and I can’t stop being gross. So we leave. And I start having the ugly hormonal cries. Not gonna lie, they were also a teensy bit related to me being upset that I was leaving cookout food behind. I’ve got my priorities.
As we drive home, I start cooling down. We get to the house and I get in an ice cold shower and try to wash all the stink and shame off of me. And then I was fine. I got changed and we went back out, and I ate for three hours and got to spend more time with our friends. And I may have been more proactive in my efforts to not start sweating like a whore in church, taking ice pack breaks before I felt like I was going to die.
Assuming I am not currently growing the worst child ever, Adam and I want to have more kids. When we decided to start trying for this guy, I pretty much assumed that it was going to take a while, so we didn’t really plan as far as timing goes. We just figured it would happen when it happened. Well, a while was like three minutes from going off of my birth control, so I now understand that we can do a little more as far as planning for the time frame of my next pregnancy. I will never be pregnant in the summer again, for as long as I live. I’ve already given my eggs a warning. I will smite all those suckers if they screw me over on this one. I want the option of being able to sit on our deck in my underwear when it is 20 degrees outside for every third trimester I ever have.