In case you've been hiding under a rock recently, I feel that it is my duty to inform you that summer is nearly here. Stockings are coming off, hemlines are getting shorter, coats are being stuffed back into closets. This is all very exciting.
Summer in Florida is brutal. The temperature tends to peak in the high 90's and the air is so stuffed with moisture that the locals grow gills in order to breathe. There is seldom a breeze and every day at 5:00 the skies open up and let loose a biblical deluge that serves to make things steamy.
I never dressed for the weather. My ex stepfather had slimy eyes and sticky hands, and I would cover myself with as much clothing as I could stand to keep them from coming in contact with my skin. Some things are harder to wash off than others, and so I was always in jeans and my only concession to the heat was my tanktops, usually covered by my crossed arms or a sweater clutched in my hands.
My celebration of summer clothes has been slow coming, and it's been but a few years since I once met Nate in a parking lot in July wearing jeans and a long-sleeved polyester shirt. But slowly my skirts have been getting shorter and my shirts thinner; I've been letting everything closer to my skin. And so I begin to think that every summer is another victory over so many years of misplaced hands and sweat.
Summer in Seattle is the best, anyway, because it's so nice.
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