I get up in the morning. Take a shower.
Lift some weights and do some exercises, then take a bicycle ride. Take a shower.
Work in the garden and yard. Take a shower.
Work in my shop and get covered with sawdust. Take a shower.
In the summer, I become expert at taking showers and paying water bills.
People don’t have to know me for very long before they know that summer is not my favorite season.
“What a beautiful day!” exclaims my friend Imogene when I stop to say hello while riding my bike through the park where she is walking.
I try to smile. I try to be nice. I pull my bandana out of my pocket and wipe the sweat from my face.
“What’s wrong with your mouth?” says Imogene.
“Nothing’s wrong with my mouth,” I say. “Why? Does it look like there is something wrong with my mouth?”
“It looks like you are trying to smile but your mouth wants to be very, very grumpy,” she says.
“Nope,” I say, reaching up and pushing the corners of my offensive mouth up into a real smile. “I’m as happy as a clam at high tide.”
“I heard you don’t like sea food, so what’s with the clams?” she says. “And on such a beautiful day!”
“Clams are harvested at low tide. They are safe at high tide. That’s why they are as happy as I am on such a lovely day,” I say, grimacing at the lie. “And I’ll soon take my 3rd shower of the day, clam free.”
“I see,” she says. “But–your mouth? Now it looks like Mona Lisa with hemorrhoids.”
Imogene and I have been friends long enough that I know she is needling me.
“I’m trying to be pleasant even though this weather is not fit for human habitation. When one is in agony, suffering relentless sunshine, terrible heat and even terribler humidity, it is hard to be cheerful,” I say, giving up on the smile.
“Terribler?” she says. “Is that a real word?”
“Let’s just say that it is a nicer word than the one that is really on my mind,” I reply. “It’s the best I could come up with in what may be my last moments.”
“It’s 70°. It’s sunny. There’s no wind. Perfect. You are not going to croak,” says Imogene.
“When did you become a doctor?” I ask. “It’s beastly out here and I hate it.”
“My perfect year,” she says, “would consist of 6 months just like this, 3 months of autumn and 3 months of spring. You?”
“Two Octobers, two Mays and 8 Januarys,” I say. “And I mean old-style-before-global-warming Januarys. Not these namby pamby things we get now.”
“Global warming is your fault,” she says. “Too many showers.”
“I’m doing society a favor by taking showers,” I say. “It’s a tradeoff.”
“Question,” she says. “If you hate sunshine and heat so much, why aren’t we standing under that tree instead of out here in the open?”
I hop off my bike and roll it into the shade. A light breeze comes up. My spirits lift.
“Now that looks like a real smile,” says Imogene, who slides over so she’s standing just outside the shade of the tree.
“Why are you still standing in the sunlight?” I say.
“I don’t want to freeze to death.”
“We can no longer be friends,” I say, climbing back on my bike. “Until November, anyway.”
