“You’re not from here, are you?"
I hear those words a lot these days. When I moved to Charleston from Boone, NC, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into. Sure, it’s hot. It’s tropical. Beachy.
But I didn’t know that the heat and humidity of Chucktown would leave every pore in my body gasping for air. Where I’m from, summers cap out at about 70 degrees, and that’s how I like my summers: like Fall.
On the hottest days I feel like Elsa from Frozen—if she had accidentally stepped into Agrabah, the fictional Arabian city from Aladdin.
A view from Grandfather Mountain in Appalachia. Decidedly not tropical.
80 degrees is the absolute most I am willing to tolerate. 70 degrees is a perfect summer temperature because, hey, I’m no prude, I like to go outside every once and a while. It can be enjoyable from time to time. Going outside becomes a chore, however, when I have to take a deep breath before opening the door.
I have a few options to deal with the heat, most of which aren’t very feasible. For starters, I could just never leave my house, but that would cause a lot of social distress to my friends, family, and employer. Secondly, I could start wearing more tank tops, but I don’t have arms for it, so until I glo up, I stand at an impasse.
I’ve decided on the third and final option to deal with this culture shock. I’m going to deal with it.
An ancient philosopher named Sheryl Crow once said, “I’m gonna soak up the sun. I’m gonna tell everyone to lighten up. I’ve got no one to blame cause every time I feel lame, I’m looking up. I’m gonna soak up the sun.”
I’m going to soak up the sun and all the positivity and the hypothetical good feelings that go along with the heat. I’m not one to turn down a challenge, so I’m challenging myself to end the complaining about the heat here, in this article.
The heat sucks, but bad attitudes suck more.
My new life as a person with a parrot on their head.