I flew back from New Orleans yesterday. We stepped off the plane at Dulles and you could feel all 93 of those Fahrenheit degrees sweltering through the walls of the walkway.
Someone complained about how incredibly hot it was.
And I said, "Yeah, but the good thing about DC is that at least it's dry heat."
The Hell? Is the look I got. From more than one person.
If you do not live here, let me assure you that these are words you will never hear from another human being in the entire DC metropolitan area.
But honestly, in the moment, I totally meant it. And it felt great walking to work this morning! It's such a reminder that everything is relative. I swear New Orleans is twice as humid as DC. You walk outside and your glasses fog up to the point where you cannot see three inches in front of you. It was like having some giant dog following you around panting on you. Ick.
You are just perpetually soggy. Your everything sweats. You walk outside and even your face is quickly covered with a thick film, and you only realize it when the condensation of your own perspiration becomes so great that it actually drips.
That is, of course, the sweat that can squeeze through your pores. Because you know I believe that the butter sweat just will not fit through those itty bitty pore holes.
You know the day after a long night of drinking? When even though you've showered, at some point you get a waft of alcohol, and then another, and you finally realize, holy cow, it's emanating from your very own self? You realize you are a walking, talking, sweating, gin distillery.
And it occurs to you that maybe the best course of action is to fill your bathtub with tonic water and tuck half a lime behind each ear and just run with it. Or maybe that precise scenario doesn't occur to you. But it's what I'm going to do next time, anyway.
This is how I feel about all the butter that was in and on every last morsel I gorged on the last five days. I wondered aloud yesterday if you can actually consume so much that everywhere you go you leave a scent of butter in your wake. Or maybe you could leave butter footprints.
I have a date tonight. And because I am unable to let go of anything absurd, I was thinking, now, if I actually did smell faintly of butter, it could go one of two ways.
Either it could subliminally remind him of baked goods, like chocolate chip cookies, and that could make him feel all warm and fuzzy and happy. Or he could sit there thinking, "Yeah, she's cool, but there's just something, I dunno, kind of sautéed about her."