The other day, the “feels like” was 111. The temperature was only a brisk 97, but when I heard the feels like was 111, I took my sweater off before I left the house.
If you haven’t already guessed, I’m still in Florida. It’s like being wrapped in a wet towel and thrown in a pizza oven. My face got sunburned walking 100 feet from my car to the door. And I’m no dainty-skinned pasty. (I’m sorry if that offended the fairer-skinned. I have a lot of Native American blood, which technically means I was here first. You are a visitor in my land and this is how we do things here. Suck it up.)
Anywho, 111. That’s two degrees more than 109 (for our math friends). I want to go outside and do things like breathe and walk to my car. I want to be able to have the strength to open doors from the outside, take the trash out, look at things outside. I just want to know I can swing open my front door and say, “I’m probably not going to die in my front yard today.”
I’ve even installed another a/c. You know why? I just told you. The first rule of blog club is there is no blog club. And in this case, it happens to be true. Plus it’s rude not to pay attention to your host. You’re my guest in this country. Remember that.
The other half of my lineage is not from here, which technically means I am my own host and my own guest. This is why I always treat myself with respect and shower myself in cookies and gifts.
By the way, weather people, stop telling me the temperature. Give me the relevant one. I don’t need you to boggle my mind with two numbers, 14 degrees apart or something. 3 numbers! Just tell me the “feels like” and I’ll figure out what to wear. Deal? Don’t make me deport you. Oh and dew point! 4 numbers! That’s it. You’re gone.
I could also wear nothing, but I’m pretty sure I’d get sunburn on my bones or attract alligators when I’m cooking myself. I bet baking people smells good to things that eat people.
That’s another thing. I just saw a news story about an alligator that had a man in its mouth. Then they couldn’t find it. I don’t know if you know this, but being in an alligator’s mouth is one of the worst places you can be.
Sadly, I can throw a rock and hit ten of them from my porch. I see them all the time. And now they’re breaking the deal. I am out of here, suckers. I warn you, I know some mixed martial arts and I doubt you train in that stuff at all. If done correctly, it’s indefensible. (I don’t know it, but shhhhhhh, alligators can’t see between parentheses. I read it in a book I wrote about alligators.)
You know where there are no alligators? Serendipity Park. It also doesn’t feel like a tanning bed in a convection oven built from an armpit. The nice thing about the mountains in Georgia is they’re not anywhere near Florida. While the “temperature” is sometimes the same, the “feels like” is not “cooking lasagna.” As soon as I can carry stuff to my car without collapsing I’m on my way.
From what I understand, the Memorial Day weekend at The Dip was a good time had by all, and that’s just the beginning. I urge you not to wait. One of the biggest regrets I’ve seen from new people coming to the park is always when they come late in the season, wishing they had visited at its beginning. The next year, you’ll start seeing those people in April. Every time.