I hate writing about the weather. It’s such a cop-out. But good Lord, it’s hot outside. I know there are things to say, big things. There’s the oil disaster and Mel Gibson and David Vitter and crime and corruption and the Danziger bridge.
But in my brain, all I have is stock Southern images of ceiling fans and wraparound porches and iced tea and white linen suits and sweaty cocktail glasses. In my office, all we can talk about is the plots of Babysitters Club books we read 20 years ago and the lyrics to that ridiculously catchy and aggressively stupid Katy Perry “California Gurls” song and words that have tricky plurals like “attorneys general” and people who fart during yoga.
We’re better than this. We have, at any given time, five college degrees and two master’s degrees in this tiny room. We normally have lively, linguistically rich debates about weighty, interesting issues: religion, racism, feminism, politics, things thick with nuances that we can grasp and parse and analyze. We normally do not have giggle fits or use the words “poo” and “boobs” 80 times in an hour.
But our brains are melting. We can’t help it. How does anything get done in this town in July and August?
I know we’re spoiled; we’re inside, in air-conditioning, doing work that isn’t really affected by the heat (as opposed to my college job at Baskin-Robbins). But is anyone else struggling to motivate? Any tips for cooling off?
