Heat Wave

I thought it was hot in Alabama. I really did. And, I don't think that there are many people who would argue with me on the point of whether or not it is indeed hot in Alabama. After all, I believe our seasons are best organized as: winter (6 weeks), spring (3 weeks sure to be full of early tornadoes), summer (months and months on end), and football (could offer any combination of the previous 3). Therefore, I'm having a hard time believing how hot I am in Chicago. At the end of every day, I'm pretty sure that I smell. And, I find some rather unattractive spots in conspicuous areas on my shirts. And, while the heat is nasty, what really bothers me about this weather has nothing to do with physical discomfort or general stickiness - it's an issue of pride. After all, if growing up in Alabama has given me anything, shouldn't it be an ability to withstand heat? And, shouldn't I be able to brag about the fact that I can take all that summer has to offer with no real consequences? (Admittedly, the one time I did boast of my ability to handle heat and mocked my Northern friends during my freshman year at Duke, I ended up being treated by a student EMT for heat stroke at a football game while they were fine, but bygones.) For all the redneck jokes I have endured and all the questions about whether or not my parents are cousins, shouldn't I at least have some sort of raw physical edge when it gets unbearably hot? Where is evolution and acclimation when you need it? But, alas, I cannot stroll through the streets of Chicago unmarked by sweat or heat while those around me scurry for air-conditioned cover and wipe their brows. Because of this, I must accept that no will be admiring my remarkably fresh presence in the city. And, growing up in Alabama might just have given me a love of fried foods and knowledge of all the words to "Friends in Low Places." Oh well. I guess I'll take what I can get. At least I didn't grow up with 6 months of darkness or anything.