I’m of Irish descent.
(Along with everybody. I know.)
Anyway, my people don’t like the heat. When Cromwell enslaved half the population and sent them to the West Indies? OH HOW WE SUFFERED.
(Like I was there.)
I really don’t like the heat. I used to think it was because I was slightly larger than I am now and that was why I hated summer and the heat but hey! Turns out no! What I hate about the heat is…the heat. Nothing changes it. Except the clothes I sweat through are cuter now.
When it begins to cross 70, I occasionally rail against my ancestors, wondering why the hell they couldn’t have stayed in Canada where they arrived because then my hair would not be standing two feet out from my head and my mascara wouldn’t have melted down to my chin.
(Yeah. That’s right. They came through Canada. I don’t even have a fun Ellis Island story to tell.)
(Although I am probably descended from illegal immigrants.)
(The courthouse burned and funny thing, ALL THE PAPERS WERE LOST. Gosh darn.)
(That’s right. I’m pretty badass.)
(No. I’m not.)
But I realize now I should be thankful that they didn’t settle further south. Like, even a good twenty minutes south.
We’re heading that direction on Friday, and in an effort to plan out my wardrobe* I checked the weather.
And oh my goodness ALL of those numbers start with a “9”. Oookay. So. That should be fun.
So. Stay tuned for that. Follow me on Facebook. You’ll be able to see my hair grow exponentially.
Along with my angst.
And the size of my pores.
*THIS IS NOT WEIRD. It’s practical. Right? I mean, I don’t want to be in a dress when we’re scrounging around Jamestown or something. Okay, I haven’t been there since I was seven, but I remember a lot of dirt. And I refuse to be shamed by pretty Charlestonians who are all coordinated while I rock cut-offs and a tank top.
That’s a lie. I don’t own cut-offs.
And I don’t know if that’s the correct noun for more than one person who lives in Charleston.
BUT MY POINT IS STILL VALID.