I was so happy when summer finally rolled around. Yay! School’s out, I’ll have plenty of time to write, the world will be perfect and beautiful in every way…
Then the summer heat hit.
And suddenly I am way more sympathetic to the Wicked Witch of the West, because no one deserves to go out like that.
Are you melting, too? We’ve got triple digit temperatures headed our way, and I’m whimpering as I type this. I’d curl up in the fetal position, too, but it’s just too dang hot to do that. Especially when one’s air-conditioning consists primarily of a ceiling fan and a squirt bottle.
As I spent the afternoon trying to get some writing done on my computer without shorting out any of its circuits by dripping sweat onto it, I couldn’t help but wonder why so many people seem to find sweat sexy. You know…sweaty torsos or beads of perspiration dripping down someone’s skin. Because right now I’m pretty sweaty myself, and all it puts me in the mood for is a big bucket of ice in which to stick my head. Am I alone in this? Surely not.
But then, there are lots of things that seem romantic in books or movies that just wouldn’t work for me in real life. Like that famous scene in Ghost with the pottery wheel and the clay. You know what I was thinking when I saw that?
Who’s going to clean that mess up, huh?
This is the way my mind works. Hmm…maybe in my next romance book I could figure out a way to make Clorox wipes sexy. Stay tuned for that one…