It's STILL Africa Hot.

I'm reviving this post I wrote 2 years ago. Seems some things never change.

Setting the scene: 

It's Thursday afternoon. The camera pans in on an unassuming brick-clad church of undetermined denomination. The church is empty except for a small gathering of people--tucked away somewhere in the cool, deep recesses of the basement. 

The newest member of the group stands and says, "Hi, I'm Torrey and I'm an air-conditioning addict." (the group replies "Hi Torrey!", in unison, as they all sit huddled in the corner of the room--under the air-conditioning vent). 

***

I admit it...when it comes to air conditioning...I am TOTALLY   hedonistic. MY GOODNESS it was hot today. Crimanently, you'd think this was Texas in July or something. I mean, it's the kind of day where the asphalt melts on the street and makes little tarry lava bubbles at the edge where it meets up with the concrete gutter.

Growing up, my sister and I used to play this sadomasochistic little game where we'd douse our bare feet with cold water from the garden hose then run out to the middle of the street as fast as we could and see who could stand on the hot pavement the longest. The loser was the first one who ran back to the cool haven of the wet lawn, screaming "OUCH OUCH OUCH!!!".

Can't remember who won. Didn't matter--because, we'd do it again and again until our poor little soles were covered in hot tar and starting to blister. The kicker is that our mom actually let us do this. Maybe she thought we were just out there watering the yard. If she only knew. Yep, we obviously came from the shallow end of our gene pool--Torrey and Heidi Gump, that's us.

Anyway, today was the type of day where you open the door to the outside and are immediately assaulted by a slap in the face of hot, humid air--the kind that makes your breath catch in your chest; sorta like breathing through a hot, wet sock (not that I have ever actually breathed through a hot, wet sock). Then, I started to sweat. In the 20 seconds or so it took me to reach the car, the back of my neck was sopping and my eyes were stinging from sweat dripping down my face as my glasses started to slide off my nose. Whoever said that "women DON'T sweat; they glow" --was either

a) retarded

b) had never been around a woman; or

3) lived in northern Alaska and never traveled further south than 69.4 degrees north latitude.

Like Eugene Morris Jerome in "Biloxi Blues" said when he got off the bus in Mississippi, "...it's like Africa HOT. Tarzan couldn't take this kind of hot."

Ice cream...THAT is what I need on a day like today. And in the distance, I heard it--that unmistakable "tinkle ting ting" of an ice cream truck nearby. So, I followed the jingly tune--like a rat follows the Pied Piper. My mouth started to water at the thought of creamy, cold, ice-creamy deliciousness. Then, the ice cream truck's tune kind of went all wobbly...like an old vinyl LP record that had been left on a sunny windowsill for a couple of days.

And, the melody wound down in a sort of deathly dirge until it sputtered and stopped altogether. As I turned the corner, I found out why---

It's hot. It's AFRICA hot.