It’s been years since I’ve had a hissy fit over the weather, but it is time. I’m not mad at the weather, and I don’t think it’s too hot. I mean it is hotter than a pig at a Fourth of July cookout, but it always has been—it’s August. August doesn’t pretend to be anything else but blazing. She’s not going to tease you with early morning coolness, and she’s stingy with breezes, which is perfectly fine since they feel like a fan in front of bonfire. Heck, she’ll barely even throw shade. August doesn’t care what you say about her because she knows, without doubt, she is hot, and she flaunts it.
I grew up in the basement furnace of South Carolina—Columbia. I start to sweat just thinking about Columbia and August getting together. If it weren’t for Lake Murray and the Woodland Village swimming pool, I think we all would have melted, just like the butter we used for suntan lotion. We looked like cows in a pasture with one tree and a small pond—everybody’s either in the pond with their tongues hanging out, or standing under the tree trying not to move to avoid having heat stroke.