The weather people in the metropolitan DC area are liars.
This is a tremendous accusation, I know. What on Earth would compel me to level such a claim?
Pure and simple.
You see, for my entire life, I have believed the weather people when they have told me that it is 100% humidity outside. There was no reason not to believe them. Step outside, and it is clear that it is oppressive out there. Of course it is, because it is 100% humidity.
What then is greater than 100% humidity?
South Carolina, apparently.
Y’all, as a Maryland/DC/Northern Virginia line hugger, I am an honorary Southerner. We are technically below the Mason Dixon line.
However, I have not been one to ever really travel in a Southernly direction, unless it included a 2-hour climate controlled plane flight to Disney World for Thanksgiving. Which is in November.
You know what’s not in November?
Apparently people live in South Carolina (Hello, South Carolina people!) and apparently, their weather people tell them that it is 100% humidity there too.
Their weather people are right.
My weather people?
Not so much.
There was a place when it shifted; like an actual line drawn across the shimmering heat weaves rising off the pavement. I wish I could remember the name of the place, but it was somewhere right after Virginia ended and right before South Carolina began.
Oh right, it was called North Carolina. (Hello North Carolina people!)
I’m sorry, it’s probably the Damn Yankee in me, but places that contain the word “North” in their name should be cold, or at least cold-er than whatever is either South or not directionally differentiated. There is nothing cold in North Carolina. The “cold” cases for beverages in the gas station we stopped at were even functioning at a mild lukewarm. Someone told me it snows there in the winter. I’m pretty sure they were trying to pull a fast one on an actual Northerner.
I have never been so flipping hot in my whole life.
Sure it started in North Carolina, but it built and built until we reached South Carolina. I can’t even describe the feeling- like the elephant I have always wanted as a pet decided to take up residence sitting on my lungs; like a freshly fallen dew was permanently creeping up my arms; like my skin was literally expanding.
Speaking of skin expanding, at the Cracker Barrel, there was a sign that said, “Heat causes things to expand. I’m not fat, I’m just hot!”
Evidence to back this claim?
I could not get my flipping compression stockings on.
My skin expanded to some degree, I’m sure of it. My compression stockings also took this time to shrink to some degree, wilting into themselves.
It is hard to put on compression stockings.
Period. That is a statement.
It is really hard to put on compression stockings in 100% Maryland/DC/Virginia line hugger humidity.
It is simply a ridiculous endeavor to even attempt to put on compression stockings in true, honest-to-Deep-South 100% humidity.
We happened to go during a record-setting, hottest weekend/week ever (in the history of the world!).
Chronic friends. My predicament was this: In order to survive, I must wear the compression stockings. Yet, actually getting those suckers on was a true test of my Chronic superpowers.
I had to take breaks.
Are you laughing?
Please, feel free too. Part of the reason I had to take so many breaks was because I was laughing so hard in the setting of the previously mentioned elephant on my chest. One needs air if one is to continue the battle.
And battle I did.
Let me tell you, I seriously limited the number of times I went to the bathroom, because the only thing worse than trying to wiggle into those sausage casings in the open wide expanse of my hotel room was trying to do it in a teeny tiny stall in the boardwalk/reststop/otherwise beach-side bathroom. I was checked on, for fear of fainting, only to be found huffing and puffing trying to get my self situated.
So I have a bone to pick with you, Weather People. Tell the truth. I know you are trying to make us all feel a little better about the stories we will one day tell our children (“We still had to go to work in the summer of 2016 when it was 100% humidity and 100 degrees…can you believe that? So stop your complaining and go to camp…”), but come on. One family vaca to Myrtle Beach and they will know the truth.
We know nothing of humidity here.
Also, if that Cracker Barrel sign speaks the truth, we may have a real shot at battling the obesity epidemic by paying just a smidge more attention to global warming. That is my Nobel Prize winning idea, though, okay? Don’t steal it. 😛