Yesterday, with the thermometer registering 97 degrees and my hair registering 137% humidity, I loaded up the kidlets and 6 bottles of water for a trip to Houston’s Memorial Park.
The plan was simple: meet up with a friend from church and walk around the park.
I was excited — if you’re from Houston, you know that walking or running around Memorial Park is the cool thing to do. If you want to look like you are committed to your health, you join the hundreds of people who head there after work.
I was going to be one of these people. One of the cool people.
It never occurred to me that those cool people get hot. REALLY hot.
Within minutes of pushing the kidlets and my water bottles in my 60+ pound double stroller, through a gravel/quicksand mixture, sweat was POURING down my face, dripping off of my nose and eyelashes. I could taste salt and smell salt.
At that moment, I knew the truth: I don’t *do* hot.
Before yesterday, I knew that I didn’t like being hot. Heck, I think everyone in my family knows I don’t like being hot. Being hot makes me angry. Irritable. Irrational. And just plain ol’ mean.
My poor husband, if he knows we’re going to be doing something outside, always makes me promise that I’ll “stay nice.” Yeah, the words “hot mama” don’t have the same connotation for this household as for the rest of the world. Poor Hubby.
But, now I know that I don’t do hot. . . at least, not well. Maybe I’m some freak of nature or something, but I believe my body just doesn’t process heat. Each time we stopped walking, for water breaks, I felt light-headed and is seemed as though everything below the surface was on FIRE.
(It was the same when my husband and I got lost in the Mountains a few weeks ago. Body on fire. Light headed. Irrational thoughts. Mean Rachel. Scared Hubby)
For forty-five grueling minutes, I pushed on, trying to avoid the lithe, slim runners in their skimpy running attire. How did they do it — run in this HEAT and look cool, calm, and collected? They seemed oblivious to the thick humid air — SURELY I wasn’t the only one struggling to breathe and fighting the urge to throw off all of my clothes right there along Memorial Drive? I found myself envying the men who were running shirtless. Lucky dogs.
Fortunately, Mr. Boy decided he doesn’t do hot either and pitched a fit. A big, glorious fit that was the PERFECT excuse to head back to the car.
That’s my boy.
Thirty minutes driving home, air conditioner at full blast, and two popsicles later, I finally felt my body temp recede slightly. Just slightly
Of course, I agreed to walk Memorial Park again. ‘Cause, you know, I still want to look like one of those cool people. I’ll just be the one huffing, puffing, and slinging sweat everywhere. My apologies in advance.