Stroke Me
The heatwave broke for a few short days but New York City is back to its no breathing, ass crack sweating, health advising, dog panting, gutter smelling, old people croaking, cat horking, subway stalling, power outing, trash melting, zit causing, allergy aggravating, eye puffing, sidewalk peeing daily swelter. In general, New Yorkers don’t do well in August. 
We get cranky. Worse, we don't look as good as we did at the beginning of the summer unless we've been lucky enough to spend weekends on end frolicking on Fire Island. Otherwise we are a walking, heat-stricken, fashion faux pas.
Like, I look at what other people are wearing on 96-degree days like these -- men mostly with their long overdyed denim and sneakers -- and I think, "that must not be very comfortable". Granted, for them, it's not as easy. What shoes are acceptable for men to wear in this weather that don't cause their nasty hairy toes to attract flies and dogs? (Birkenstocks and Tevas are not acceptable and I don't care who you think you are.) Most straight men I know think flip-flops are gay but a cute boy wearing a pair can flip me over any day. I notice the badness a lot more this time of the year. A guy sitting on a park bench with his gray t-shirt tucked in to his tightie whities. A woman sporting a bicep tattoo of a tea bag and a too cropped cropped top. (And is it just me or are there a lot of bad tattoos walking around out there lately?). I'm equal parts amused and repulsed by girls in those uber-trendy lower than low-low rider stretch jeans cut off at the top. Everyone and their mother is wearing them but no one can walk in them. Those things are like botox injections for your hips. If it's hot, girl, shave those gams, pull on a skirt and be done with it.
Still, I was reminded by a friend just this afternoon as I dared to kvetch about how hot I was standing outside of my office, cell phone pressed to my perspiring left ear, that it's just summer and summer is better than winter. All winter and during much of the spring I said that I wasn't going to complain once the warm weather hit because I hate the cold weather much more. I complained all winter. I complain every season, really. So the heat advisories make me a little more cranky and lazy. I can get over it. There is just so much more about the brutal freezing cold in the depths of December that makes me want to climb in to bed until it all blows over.
Plus, in summer? Mister Softee! The Beach! The Pool! Motorcycle Madness! Frozen Lemonade from the corner stand! Stoop sitting, ice-coffee drinking, people watching! The patio at The Gate! Outside seating for dinner and cocktails at Yaffa and for brunch at Veselka! In winter I go for weeks on end, maybe even months, without being horny. In summer? My libido is on fire! Sticky, sweaty sex on rooftops! Fornicating in Prospect Park at night while the Hasidic Jews look on! I get to bare my feet every single day (I have a thing about having my paws hang out freely. When I first looked at the Park Slope apartment that I eventually bought I knew it was for me when I took my shoes off and felt the balls of my feet against the shiny hardwood floors) and I get to wear my favorite kinds of tops. Tanks, camisoles, spaghetti strapped halters! I have air conditioning in both my office and my apartment! So what the hell am I complaining about? I need to keep my pie hole shut before I'm desperately shopping for new warm-enough outerwear that doesn't make me look like that poor retarded kid from "A Christmas Story" who was literally stuck in his snowsuit.
It's already mid-August (how that happened I really don't know) so I'm going to continue to enjoy the summer for as long as it lasts, no matter what. I'm sweating? I'm loopy? My pits stink? It's all good. I'm in the moment. Scorch me! Gimme the heat stroke! I'm ready. I am getting so hot I'm gonna take my clothes off! I'll save up the complaints for after October.
