Copyright 2009 Lydia Hinshaw
ORMOND BEACH, FL -- Florida in summer is like living between the steam iron and the board.
I feel flattened, without the energy to do much of anything, trapped indoors as surely as a snowbound Alaskan in winter. If nothing else this summer, I have validated my decision to abandon regular full-time employment in favor of summer jobs in cooler locations, supplemented by part-time winter gigs here.
(For those who are a bit behind, Prince Charming and I are summering at home because we could not find jobs in locations where we wanted to be. The only offer we got was from a resort where, if I'd left my jacket in the car, I'd have to buy a $40 ferry ticket -- and spend eight hours on a boat -- to retrieve it.)
This is all one of Mother Nature's tricks. You move somewhere after college because you love the climate and for years you revel in it. Eventually, your body isn't 20-something anymore and everything feels different. As recently as 1991, I suffered, shivering, through a two-week July camping vacation in the Canadian Rockies, dreaming only of walking off the plane at our local airport into steamy humidity once again.
Today I dread going outdoors long enough to get the mail, particularly if it's likely to include a bill from Florida Power & Light. I check the calendar a dozen times a day to see if I've gotten any close to October.
That would be 73 days and counting.
I feel flattened, without the energy to do much of anything, trapped indoors as surely as a snowbound Alaskan in winter. If nothing else this summer, I have validated my decision to abandon regular full-time employment in favor of summer jobs in cooler locations, supplemented by part-time winter gigs here.
(For those who are a bit behind, Prince Charming and I are summering at home because we could not find jobs in locations where we wanted to be. The only offer we got was from a resort where, if I'd left my jacket in the car, I'd have to buy a $40 ferry ticket -- and spend eight hours on a boat -- to retrieve it.)
This is all one of Mother Nature's tricks. You move somewhere after college because you love the climate and for years you revel in it. Eventually, your body isn't 20-something anymore and everything feels different. As recently as 1991, I suffered, shivering, through a two-week July camping vacation in the Canadian Rockies, dreaming only of walking off the plane at our local airport into steamy humidity once again.
Today I dread going outdoors long enough to get the mail, particularly if it's likely to include a bill from Florida Power & Light. I check the calendar a dozen times a day to see if I've gotten any close to October.
That would be 73 days and counting.
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