Upon hearing the news of my impending move, nothing seems to make the people around me happier than telling me how hot it gets in Louisiana.
"Oh my God, it's so hot down there! It's like trying to breathe in a pot of boiling water!"
"You're gonna melt as soon as you walk out your door!"
"Do you have any idea how humid it gets in the South?!?!" (This one kinda worries me, because my hair does not do well in humidity.)
Last time I checked a map, New Orleans wasn't situated atop the surface of the sun, but to hear these people tell it-- most of whom have never been farther south than Maryland I might add-- any and all cases of Spontaneous Human Combustion have happened in Louisiana. I'm going to burst into flames walking to the mailbox. I'm going to straight up drop dead on the sidewalk, a charred barbeque version of my former self. The only good news I've heard about the supposed inhumane heat index of this place is that I'll probably drop 20 pounds in a month. That alone was enough to pack my bags and buy a ticket if I hadn't already.
But I digress...
As I was explaining all this to Levi-- who I'm now convinced is some kind of superhero for his ability to exist comfortably amongst the hot lava strees that apparently make up the state as a whole-- the subject of my wardrobe came up. Though he assures me that I will be able to breathe outdoors without the aid of a personal air conditioning unit wrapped around my neck, we agree that it is perhaps time to rethink a few of my wardrobe choices.
The problem I'm facing is, I was never much of a summer-clothes kind of gal. I only own one pair of something you may consider shorts. I wore them once and my mother spent so much time teasing me about how pale my legs are I tossed them in a bottom drawer never to be heard from again. Thanks, Mom! Also, the Earth would have to be actually rocketing into the sun before I went sleeveless... Seriously.
I've never made a secret of the fact that my distaste for summer attire has everything to do with body image issues. I don't like being in any situation that requires I show skin. I have to be about to literally die before I relent and dress season-appropriate. However, from what I'm told, I just might.
The moral of this story? If I want to spend more than half an hour alive by the side of my Best Beloved, it's time to face my fears and go shopping for *shudder* summer clothes.
Or... There's always this.
I'll let you know how it works out...