Part of my daily routine, even on weekends, is to
check the weather prior to confirming the outfit which had been decided the
previous evening is still appropriate.
And while we are safely beyond Memorial Day and in the white
shoes/seersucker/linen zone, I am still reluctant to wear any of these things
if there is a chill in the air. Nothing
says distressed more than a preppy shivering in cream suede wingtips and pastel
chinos and the possibility exists in Southern California in June. I had checked the forecast, with a current
temp of 63 and an anticipated high of 72, but I also did a visual check as
“almost” only works in horseshoes and hand grenades and apparently
meteorology. The weather app on my phone
is rarely accurate. Of course it was
raining.
There is a meteorological phenomenon known to Southern
California and Hawaii; I call it spritzing.
Spritzing is actual precipitation but more along the lines of a baby
slobbering than anything even remotely replenishing to Mother Earth. It comes in fits and starts and is sometimes
so light, you think maybe you’re imagining it.
All it is good for is stirring up the latent dirt on your car causing it
to look a mess.
Since it was spritzing, I had to alter my intended
wardrobe and choose a more weather-appropriate ensemble, replacing the suede
shoes with stylish, navy leather wingtips.
However, because of the
humidity, I was forced to wear a Polo shirt, which was much cooler but did not
look as nice as a button-down would on my body.
Despite being bereft of children, I have somehow morphed into what can
only be described as a “Dad” body, resplendent with man boobs and a spare tire
worthy of a dune buggy, people.
Speaking of dunes, the very next day summer arrived in
all its glistening glory. Once I escaped
the clutches of the swamp-like conditions of both Louisiana and Washington, DC;
I thought man-boob sweat would be a thing of the past. My four years in the Bay Area led me to
believe California to be the land of broken dreams and no need for air
conditioning. My interstate relocation
to Long Beach, 18 months ago, gave me the false sense of not needing any
appliance to cool one’s household. I was
told on more than one occasion by the bald-faced liars, I mean citizens, of SoCal, “It doesn’t get hot enough to need an air conditioner.” And like any other yokel from out of state, I
believed them. I wanted, needed,
to believe them as my apartment did not have an A/C unit.
July 2015 reared
its fire-emblazoned head which led me on a fruitless search for anything
resembling an air conditioner, swamp cooler, fan or ice chest. None were to be found as they had purchased
by the ridiculous people who assured me I didn’t need anything to help cool. Hateful!
Not wanting to put
the ‘Duh’ in humidity again this year, I learned from my mistakes. So when I went to bed on a chilly Saturday in Long Beach and awoke Sunday morning stranded on a pirogue in a Louisiana swamp (it’s a
boat; look it up), I simply turned on my air conditioner, which I had
purchased back in April when it was still 50 degrees outside. The only thing I want moist in my home are
baked goods.
And my friends
say, “But Dustin, you’re from the South.
Shouldn’t you be used to the heat and humidity?” And I always reply, “Yes, I spent the first
32 years of life, traversing every boon and cranny in every part of the South
not touching the Atlantic Ocean, sweating and pouting about sweating. I was a hot, unhappy child, yearning for a
family from somewhere cold. I was
convinced I was switched at birth with a preppy family from up North who somehow
had a small redneck child, begging for Wranglers and boots while swaddled in
layers of MY argyle and corduroy.”
Why do you people think the first place I moved out of
the South was to Alaska? No one moves to
Alaska by accident, y’all. And speaking
of Alaska, my little air conditioner keeps it chilly in mi apartmento por favor.
Seriously, you can see your breath in my living room. And that’s all I’m saying for now as I have become too cold to type. Winning!
