This morning, the last day of January, two thirds into summer I looked up and noticed the light streaming through the trees into our home. Why had I not noticed this before? Why had I not visited the beach? (Dot-to-dot patterns of tiny moles and freckles might have had something to do with it.) Why was I smiling again?
The temperature at 9.00am was below mid 20’s. The needle hadn’t pointed to 30 at eight in the morning. I can choose to take a dip in the pool – my life doesn’t depend on it. I won’t have to spend the day in wet soggy swimmers in order to get my chores done. I am free.
Every summer seems to get hotter as I let the flame of menopause lick my boiling head. We live in the hinterland, miles from sea breezes. Our house is nestled in a small valley. Our cottage is full of holes – all the better for snakes to get in but without basic insulation. “We can’t put in a air-conditioner. It won’t work unless everything is sealed,” the husband says. I’ll seal him if he doesn’t watch it.
Pool dips, cold water splashes. Sitting under fans. Mild heatstroke which had me peering into a bucket expecting a vegetarian panini to resurface.
I have an arsenal of cooling devices for bedtime. Ceiling fan, two pedestal fans strapped to the foot rest of our bed. A very loud machine with an internal fan. We filled it with ice and water and directed its flow to be swept up by the two aforementioned fans. Before bed I had a total immersion shower and headed upstairs with an ice bucket. I soaked a sarong in the water and draped it over my poor hot body. Soaked a small towel and placed it over my middle-aged glow-in-the-dark neck. The whole operation took about half an hour. I laid awake wondering how the husband had talked me into moving to Queensland.
We missed our lovely trip to New Zealand, cool breezes and cold oceans, because the husband broke his leg, had four operations and complications just before Christmas. He asked the doctor if air travel was possible. He mouthed the words DEATH and TRAP.
It’s getting worse for me every year but this year the husband kissed my beetroot coloured head before he went off to sleep, muttering something about research. Air-conditioner. Next year. I think I heard.
February please be kind. And hopefully next summer I’ll drift off to sleep in a polar blast of icy air, and my face will no longer be heart attack purple.