Florida summers are challenging to anyone’s self-esteem. Pretend to be happy for anyone whose hair looks good. It’s the LOL! way..Most of us look like either Sammy Hagar or Tom Petty, depending upon your curly or straight hair. I should open a Scrunchie kiosk.
For those unfamiliar with August in the Sunshine State, imagine swimming through air with a snorkel. Actually, you’ll need SCUBA gear to breathe, but ‘snorkel’ is just plain fun to say..
One only need to look at theme park family faces to appreciate the miserable heat. Everyone at “The Happiest Place On Earth” looks like they were weened on a pickle. You’ve never experienced under-boob sweat until you’ve waited in line to get on Space Mountain in summer.
And then there’s the clothes. Being naked is still too hot, but unless you live at one of our area nude wrinkle farms, we have to wear something. Shorts are too short, yoga pants don’t hide cellulite, and let’s face it, we all hate our arms.
C’mon fall. A couple months of cooler temps, low humidity, ergo, great hair and a flattering wardrobe. Until then, these are 2 shower and 3 shirt days. Concrete respect to roofers, landscapers, dry cleaners and everyone having to make their living in our flacid penis-shaped steam room state. It gets better.
Whining in air conditioning,
Hi! I wish I knew your name. It’s only fair. You know mine;)
Nance. Nancy. Miss Nancy. Baby Nance. That last one is what my family and dearest friends call me. Baby Nance. I’m the youngest of five, so it gives my brain a warm baby bath in the sink when someone I love calls me that.
100 percent of people who don’t know me at all have some universal instinct to call me Miss Nancy. I hate/love it. Do strangers call everybody Miss Something? I’ve never heard it, and I pay attention to everything. Maybe it’s a southern thing, or maybe my old ass name, which btw, reached its zenith in the 1920’s, just deserves a Miss in front of it. In any case, I find it affectionate.
Miss Nancy was also the air name I was stuck with when I did mornings on KKBQ in Houston, the blackest 3 years of my life. The best things to come out of there were my son, Griffin, and I-10 East. No, seriously. Sometimes hearing it gives me flashbacks that feel like a lightning strike down my spine. Not nearly as much fun as it sounds.
And then there are my sons. It was brought to my attention that they often call me Nance. It’s strange that it’s not strange to me. They only do it when their friends are around, and I take it as a polite acknowledgement to their friends, because that’s what they call me. I also wonder if they don’t want to call me Mom in front of their friends. I worry a lot. 🙂
Miss Nancy from total strangers, Nancy from people who want to keep some distance, Nance means “I know you” and Baby Nance from my family and my oldest, dearest friends.
Mom from my sons. I should insist on that. It’s my favorite.