My life has become the plot of a cheesy science fiction movie. You know the one where, in the middle of a heat wave, a throwaway character says this can’t last forever, and, sadly, the opposite turns out to be prophetic. Cue the title.

Last night I was a pool of sweat. On the way back from the kitchen, I found a puzzle piece on the floor in the hall. It had hitched a ride on my arm.

The dogs are still asleep sprawled out on the floor. I was abruptly awakened when my legs slid off the couch. I had become one of those balance toys where the toy’s ends flip.

I heard a dog yipping for a while this morning. I think it was my neighbor’s very little dog. It’s yipping could have been a chair creaking.

If this heat is a preview of hell, I am going to change my ways.

My life has become a metaphor.

I have many memories of July 4th. One of my favorites was from when I was a kid. From my backyard steps, I could see the fireworks, from the next town over, break high in the sky. I oohed and ahed. One of my neighbors heard me and invited me inside for a drink. He had been a friend of my mother’s since high school. His wife and I sat around their kitchen table and chatted. They drank beer. I drank root beer. I felt special.

Every July 4th I marched with my drill team in the Wakefield parade. My father’s friend had a house with a huge porch along the parade route. He hosted a party every year. When I’d march by, the whole crowd, watching the parade from the porch, yelled my name. I was both embarrassed and pleased.

My grossest memory is from a cold July 4th. I was wearing a sweatshirt, and we were sitting around the fire drinking. I picked up my ubiquitous red cup and a slug was riding along the side. The crowd ughed, and I dropped my cup.

The heat wave will begin to break tonight starting at 8. Tomorrow will be in the low 80’s. That, according to the weatherman, will bring relief. We are in such a state that relief is the low 80’s.

A bit from one of my traditional July 4th posts:

On July 3rd 1776, John Adams wrote a letter to his wife Abigail. In it, he predicted the celebrations for American Independence Day, including the parties:

“It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this time forward evermore.” 

I know some people complain that the meaning of the day is lost in the barbecues and the fireworks, but they have forgotten John Adams’ hope. We are honoring the day exactly as he wished. Flags are waving everywhere. Families get together to celebrate and to break bread, albeit hot dog rolls. Fireworks illuminate the sky. Baseball is played on small town fields and in huge stadiums. Drums beat the cadence in parades. We sing rousing songs celebrating America and our freedom. We also sing heartfelt songs about what America means to us. We are many sorts of people, we Americans. We don’t all look the same, practice the same religion, eat the same foods or dress in the same way, but we all celebrate today.

You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4th, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten but it is patriotism. Happy birthday, America, from all us Americans.

This weather has me reminiscent of Africa, of the hot, hot dry season. The only difference is I didn’t profusely sweat my life away as I do in this humidity, but I did sweat while sitting in a chair. When I’d get up, my body would be outlined in sweat on the cushion. I only had cold water. I took night showers, didn’t dry off then jumped right into bed. I air-dried which helped me fall asleep. Last night I air-dried. I slept downstairs on the couch which was cooler. I left the back door open, but I did shut the dog door. I do have an air-conditioner, but, to my dismay, it is not working and my finances are low. I’ll have to wait until next month, the hottest month, to have it checked. Meanwhile, I’ll sweat, and the dogs will pant. We make a lovely picture of panting dogs and a sweaty old lady.

The thick humidity dampens sounds. My neighborhood is quiet. I don’t even hear the birds. My dogs are finally sleeping. Nala is on the couch. Henry is on the tile floor in the kitchen in front of the back door. They have stopped panting for the meantime. I can find a way to feel cooler but not my poor dogs.

I am an idler. On the table in my den are my distractions to fill time. I have a crossword puzzle, a jigsaw puzzle, my book and my iPad. My TV is also here in the den. I have been watching movies and detective series on Acorn. My only movement is to drag myself to the kitchen or the bathroom.

When I was a kid, the weather never bothered except me for thunder and lightning storms and heavy rains both of which kept me housebound. I spent most days at the playground. I did crafts, played tennis and horseshoes and pitched for the softball team. I made gimp lanyards and bracelets. I knew all the different weaving styles. My bracelets were flat weaving, and my lanyards round until the hook end which was square. Sometimes I used three colors. I painted a tray. It was filled with flowers. It was the best thing I ever painted, still is for that matter.

I used to love to sit on the back steps in the darkness. It was the coolest time of the day. I could see fireflies. I could hear the clank of dishes being washed after dinner and the muted voices of my neighbors. I could hear TV’s. Usually I was the only one out, the only one enjoying the beauty of a clear, starry summer night.