I’m feeling homicidal again. I detailed my descent into heat-induced madness last year around this time, so I won’t go too deeply into it now, except to say, it’s freaking hot. Hotter’n blazes, hotter’n Hades, hotter’n Lucifer’s ass. I stagger down the beach, over sand that feels like hot coals. The sun pushes me down to meet the infernal hand of hell that rises up to pull me into its fiery depths. I pass a committee of vultures, eyeing me hungrily, tongues slightly extended as if tasting my broiled flesh already. How do these vile bastards look so cool?
I rinse three times a day, but the cold showers aren’t cold enough. Within minutes of drying off I’m wet again (as George Costanza once said, “It didn’t take.”). Yes, there’s a pool, there’s even the ocean, but they’re both so warm it feels like diving into sweat. My hair sticks to the back of my neck and I’m forever peeling off my shirt like wet wallpaper. Even the lizards are irritable.
Electricity is expensive in Mexico, so we use the A/C sparingly, even though Bill tells us, “Don’t worry, be happy!” So when it’s all I can stands, I can’t stands no more, when the dogs, tongues lolling, eyes glazed over, gape at us as if to say, “You think you’re hot, you bare-skinned bitches, we’re wearing fur coats here! What are you, pet-sitters or sadists?”, we all trudge into the bedroom, flip the switch and chill. We’re all happy, for an hour or two. Then we’re forced to reopen the oven door of reality and carry on with the rest of the day.
And it’s not just us pasty-faced northerners having a literal meltdown. Even the locals gripe (ever wonder why everybody complains about the weather but nobody ever does anything about it?), and reasonably so. Yesterday the heat index topped 118 F. Humidity 93% I watch my sweaty back for any signs of my neighbour’s own murderous urges. Until I remember the studies that say 90+ temps are too hot for cold-blooded killers. The heat has saved my life. Hooray. Give me A/C or give me death.