Pick Your Misery

You know how we forget the horrific details of pregnancy and childbirth after enough time passes—because if we didn’t, no one would ever sign up for baby number two?

That’s exactly how I feel about winter. Now that we live in Florida, I’ve blocked out the horror of Pittsburgh winters: things like hidden ice patches that made every drive a death wish, endless gray slush, daily driveway shoveling, frozen nose hairs, and cabin fever.

Florida winters are laughably easy. A few weeks of closed-toed shoes and a light sweater, and you’re good. But holy hell, the heat here is a beast.

I traded winter woes for boob sweat, frizzy hair, heat rash, heat stroke, mosquito bites, monsoon rain, and being perpetually covered in a thick layer of sweat. And don’t even get me started on the way my car doubles as a sauna, and the risk of third-degree burns from the seatbelt.

It’s the end of September, and temps finally dipped below 90. Thank gawd, because I’m officially done with heat. 

We haven’t even made it to the grand finale yet—sweating our way through trick-or-treating.

Yay.