When July slams head-on into Utah, I get sleepy all the time. Riding the bus, the way the automobiles carry me, gently swaying to and fro like some mechanical hammock, I feel my chin sink, nodding off as I listen to Order of the Phoenix on CD. It's funny, because when I wake up at the transfer station, I find myself borrowing a British accent. Blimey, I said, look at the size of that. Then I laughed at myself, because I am such a child sometimes.
My point is, though, that July is nothing sultry like June evenings can be. This makes me furious with summer, because it's such a waste to have 94 degrees and no light breeze. Everything becomes twice as hard because somehow gravity increases when the temperature does. Mowing the lawn, the smell of cut grass and sweat mingling, and I can barely push the mower past the daisies.
The best part of it is when I get in the car to return the movies or go to the library, I feel everything. My teal blue shirt sticking to me, my hair slick and flat from the shower, tiny satin ribbons on shoes, on unmentionables, and drinks taste so much sweeter cold.
My point is, though, that July is nothing sultry like June evenings can be. This makes me furious with summer, because it's such a waste to have 94 degrees and no light breeze. Everything becomes twice as hard because somehow gravity increases when the temperature does. Mowing the lawn, the smell of cut grass and sweat mingling, and I can barely push the mower past the daisies.
The best part of it is when I get in the car to return the movies or go to the library, I feel everything. My teal blue shirt sticking to me, my hair slick and flat from the shower, tiny satin ribbons on shoes, on unmentionables, and drinks taste so much sweeter cold.