Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column melting into a little multicolored puddle, just like the pile of crayons we left in the car when we were 4 years old.
Don’t know about you all, but this heat stuff is getting perilously close to our limit. Like we imagine most of you did, the reason we came here in the first place was for the cold weather. And, like you, we stayed here for the summers – the bonus of which is you get all the summer sunshine without the brutal nuclear humidity of, say, Atlanta.
Sure, it gets hot here sometimes. But the past few days have been baking us into a hallucination-filled heatstroke, all the more worse because we’re slow-cooking like that buffalo jerky we see smoking on Summit Boulevard every day.
The strategies we’ve been testing in an attempt to stay cool have led us to believe we know why Rome, Greece and Egypt ended up full of statues: It didn’t take the ancients long to realize you stay cooler if you sit stone-still.
So, we sit here at the keyboard doing our newspaper version of Fox News’ Greta Van Sustren (for the TV-challenged: she talks, but never seems to move her mouth), trying our best to move only what is absolutely necessary. If we concentrate hard enough, we don’t necessarily feel the fan blowing through Cubicle Row, but we imagine the air next to us getting cooled off by the breeze, and it seems to help.
What’s most frustrating about this almost-too-hot-heat is this purgatory of thermo-irritation we spend most of our time in – we’re not completely too hot, but we’re not comfortable, either, and it’s playing tricks on our brain. For example, we’ll be sitting here typing away (OK, maybe just acting like it because the Corporate Bigwigs are looking) and we think we’re cool, but then a single drop of sweat will fall from somewhere under our shoulder, strafe our rib cage and give us this split-second shock that leaves us wondering, “Are we hot? Or are we springing a leak?”
We tell you about this today not simply to complain, but to warn you: If you happen to approach us and we appear catatonic, or worse, you think we’re ignoring you, forgive us. We’re just trying to stay as still as possible so the heat waves can’t get us.
We thought for sure we’d get a few irate, or at least disappointed, callers after Thursday’s column about men’s helplessness when it comes to the magnetic field that is the eye-cleavage connection. We’d explain further, but we don’t want to push our luck.
We only bring it up today because we had to admit defeat in a debate whether “bodice-rippers” is an accepted term to describe women’s romance novels. It is, at least in the article the winner of this debate dropped on our desk – it’s full of raven tresses, guys named Dirk and the aforementioned categorization.
We don’t think the word “bodice” gets used enough in modern language, much less in the same sentence as “ripping.” We encourage you to use both at your earliest conversational convenience.
Let us know where you’re sweating at
email@example.com, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just make that gross sticky sound of sweaty skin on car seat vinyl into the voicemail at (970) 668-3998 ext. 237.
We’re out selling bodice inspections door to door …
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