Today, it rains, but the heat waves have begun. It’s that time of year again.
Summer sort of creeps up on you; a thief in the night. One minute you’re strapped into your Michelin man bomber jacket and the next, you’re diving through your cupboard, dodging mothballs, wondering how your cute cargo pants from last year’s Woolies sale could shrink so dramatically all by themselves.
Why is it that everybody cheers on the warmer months, like so many grinning parents at a hockey match?
Why do my friends break out their brewskis at the slightest whiff of budding blooms and start talking ominously about pool parties and beach picnics?
Really, I belong elsewhere. Anywhere, in fact, that is democratic enough to insist people dress in long sleeves and boots all year round.
You see, this season doesn’t suit me. At all. In any way, shape or form. Everything about it turns me into a fidgeting, desperate, cash-burning cow, because I know that I look, feel and act like a square peg in a round hole on a hot day.
The weight bit is an issue. But funny thing is, it seems to be an issue not just for padded people such as me but for skinnies too.
They’ve started the rumble about too-snug board shorts and stretched-beyond-their-limit string bikinis. The difference is that with a bit of a hop, skip and jump (literally) and a couple of days ignoring bread and drinking only lemon-flavoured water, they’re good to go.
Me? No matter what I do, I’m never ready for Hola Summer. I’m constantly its bridesmaid, never the blushing bride.
Why let this bother me so? Well, because I’m short and round and look better in structured jackets and platform boots than whispery Indian cotton dresses and twinkly slip-slops.
I’ve tried the whispery dress thing and it’s fine as long as you’re standing up. The minute you sit down, fabric rides up legs, thighs are exposed, the boundary line of fake tans is obvious to the guy sitting opposite you and you spend most of that torturous time sucking in a tummy that doesn’t give a toss about clean lines and streamlined silhouettes.
Short of founding a political party advocating extreme global cooling measures, there’s not much I can do in these dark times of beer, braais, mozzies and sun cream.
So, if you will, forgive me when I refuse to sit down for a glass of something icy during a visit.
If I’m the last woman standing, you’ll know why.