Summer has crept into the desert wearing steel toed boots.

Got into my car after work today greeted by a balmy 121 degrees (that’s 49.44 Celsius).  Cooled down to about 119 by the time I arrived home and was able to safely remove my cardigan.

It’s that time of year that you sleep on top of the covers, listen to the night song of the air conditioner whirring.  The time of the year I find my dog laying directly on top of the floor vents – hogging the relief of cool air.

You know that ‘whoosh’ of hot that hits your face and arms when you open a pre-heated oven?  That’s pretty much how it feels to open the front door in the morning.

The thing is,  you get used to it.  Even when tar from the store parking lots stick to your flip flops, there is no flinching.  Just a knowing and respectful acknowledgment.

Getting used to the juxtaposition of ‘outside’ and ‘inside’ is a skill you acquire too.  Layers.  Layers of Summertime ‘outside’ undergarments and air conditioned ‘inside’ outerwear is required.  (Say that three times fast.)

Being English, I do not ‘tan’.  I keep my fair complexion, and I’ve adapted.

I marvel at the tourists in their tank tops and shorts, panting as they reach the oasis that is the door to their destination.  I was that person years ago!

Now I slowly stride near them, in my long sleeved work tops with an air of ‘Yes, I am of the desert.  My people do not fear the heat’.

I jest.  I fear the heat.  It’s directly related to  fear of the electric bill.

I HAVE to have a cover on me at night.  I sleep under a cotton sheet with a fan at the foot of my bed.  The A/C is set at 85 in the house.  Much to the chagrin of guests who keep their homes in the 70’s.

Good thing I don’t have many guests I suppose.

Unless we’re counting the Summertime creatures … but that’s for another post.