undateable in the summertime

julie warshawFor native Miamian, I do badly when it’s hot. Some girls glow; I sweat. (And not like a pig. Like an animal who actually sweats. A person, for example.) I see women with their hair down and am stricken with envy. Heat makes the hairs on the crown of my head remember that they hate each other and each frizzes out in a different direction. The hair underneath resorts to its original curl and sticks to my back, like a nurtured, NASCAR rat tail. I complain. “It’s hot, right?” My jeans shrink and stick to me, so I unbutton the top button; it doesn’t help. I complain some more. “Aren’t you guys hot? It’s hot.” I stop paying attention to the conversation I started. My make-up pools under my eyes and makes them itch. I forget I’m wearing mascara, rub one eye and spend the rest of the night looking like the main guy from A Clockwork Orange. And I forget that I unbuttoned my jeans when I get up to go to the bathroom. I’m not sexy when it’s hot.


←100 words a day


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