Melting.

I'm a big wimp when it comes to heat. I can't really say if the pregnancy is contributing to my daily wilting now that we hit the upper 90's and 100's; it's likely that I feel martyred in the hot July sun every year. The very thought of August moves me to tears. August--with its scorching rays sucking up every last drop of life in its hideous, sweltering path... Does anyone have a giant freezer I can hide in?

It's at this point that I need to get some perspective:

• The one summer I spent in Spain I was in Murcia, which wikipedia claims has a mild climate. I beg to disagree. It was freaking hot. I saw thermometers that claimed 44 degrees Celsius (which translates to 111 degrees Fahrenheit). And, for this desert girl, it was unbearably humid. Oh, misery. And then, one beautiful day, we discovered a working swamp cooler (totally unheard of in Spain) behind an enormous curtain in our apartment. Sheer beauty. We slept peacefully and coolly all summer long.
• When I was in high school, my parents decided it was time to invest in a swamp cooler. Prior to that blessed event, we had used a complex system of opening and shutting windows and curtains to cool our abode. (It didn't work.)
• Until I was roughly 12, one of the rules of our household was to wear an undershirt in the dead of winter (like this, only they were usually white or femininely patterned with rosebuds or the like, and they weren't meant to be seen). Because my mother grew up on a farm, "the dead of winter" was a relative term, calculated by the scientific method of determining whether any snow was left on the mountains. Meaning: snow on mountains = undershirt must be worn. Now, I'm not 100% sure on this, given that it's dark outside, but I'm pretty sure there's still snow on the mountains. (To be completely honest, my older sister and I eventually mutinied the snow-on-the-mountains rule and refused the undershirts after, say, Memorial Day.)
• We also weren't allowed to swim unless it was 86 degrees outside (we had the phone number for the weather guy memorized). [In my mom's defense, I think she formulated this rule so she wouldn't have to answer the "Can we go swimming/run through the sprinklers/jump on the neighbor's tramp with sprinklers on underneath?" question a thousand times a day while she was at work.]

So, life is better. Central air. Highs in the low 100's. Swimming whenever I want. Plus ice cream sandwiches in the freezer. I think I'll go sit on a vent.